


Returning to Normaility

by consulting_fangirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:51:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_fangirl/pseuds/consulting_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two months after the fall and John is just moping about the flat, consumed by grief. So what happens when an unexpected visitor turns up at 221B?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! So I joined this at the recommendation of a friend. Please be nice as this is my first fanfic and I appreciate it might not be as good as others!
> 
> Thanks for reading!

John sat in the flat. He hadn't moved all morning, and made no plans to. He closed his eyes and just listened to the world. He could hear Mrs Hudson moving downstairs, probably making tea. She moved slowly, more of a shuffle than a walk. He heard her set down something on the table and the scraping of a chair. He heard the cars drive down Baker Street. He heard a group of people outside, meeting for lunch at the café. They were laughing with each other. His jaw tightened and he could feel his teeth grinding together. They had no idea, those people, no idea how lucky they were. There was still happiness in their lives, a ray of light that shone through any darkness that was present. They all still had the chance to be happy.

John felt a wave of jealousy run through him. He longed to be happy, to laugh with friends. But he couldn't. It was impossible.  
It had been 2 months since he watched his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, fall, or jump – John wasn't sure which word to use in the context.

He opened his eyes and looked around the flat. He spent so much time repeating this action it was a miracle he hadn't gone mad. John hadn't moved a thing in the flat. Everything was exactly how they had left it on the day he lost Sherlock.

His eyes travelled over the chair opposite him, the violin perched beside it, the kitchen, the microscope, and the unfinished experiments. After scanning the entire flat, his eyes rested on the wall. The face that had been sprayed there seemed to be mocking him, the bullet holes sending a new wave of pain, anger and loss through John's body.

He felt hot tears in his eyes, threatening to spill over. He let them roll down his cheeks. What was the point in trying to cover them up? He was alone, no one was going to see, unless Mrs Hudson decided to pay him a visit, but it seemed unlikely, given the way he had been treating her.

At first, having Mrs Hudson around was a godsend. It left John to his own private mourning, to let him get on with it whilst making sure he didn't starve. She cooked for him, made him sleep and wash. John drew the line at her cleaning the flat though, he wasn't quite ready for that yet. Since then, he hadn't uttered a word to the woman except for thanks where thanks were due.

John closed his eyes again and leaned his head back. She had expected him to get over Sherlock's death by now, but that wasn't going to happen. John was not ready to let go.

A thousand memories coursed through his mind. Walking into St Bart's lab and meeting Sherlock. Running after the cab after their dinner the next evening. Watching Sherlock about to take the pill that could end his life, and then ending that which threatened it. Moriarty in the pool, John telling Sherlock to run, to save himself. Laughing like naughty teenagers in Buckingham Palace, stealing the ash tray. He heard Mycroft's voice.

"For once can you two behave like grown ups?"

A small laugh escaped John's lips. He opened his eyes and found that he couldn't stop laughing. That ridiculous ash tray must still be in the flat. He stood up, the first real movement he had made that day, and hunted around the flat for it. He found it under a stash of old newspapers which Sherlock used to find evidence or for new cases. He set it on the small table that separated the two armchairs. He spent a while just looking at it, remembering the sheer ridiculousness of how it was acquired. That was the first time John had felt close to happiness since the fall, but he didn't register it at the time.

After the brief moment, he returned to his default position, just sat in the chair, thinking, wishing that he could be happy, for the pain to end. There had been nights where the pain was so great that he has tried to swallow all of the sleeping tablets he could find. Mrs Hudson had arrived just in time, and had forced the bottles out of his hands. One night, he blacked out and woke up the next morning to the clean smell that accompanied hospitals, with a tear-stained Harry beside his bed. He'd promised her then that he wouldn't try again. They might not get along, but since their parents rejected her, John was the only thing she had left.

He could hear more movement from downstairs, for whilst he was thinking, there had been a small knock at the door. He heard the smash of a cup. John's eyebrows knitted together as his eyes moved toward the door. It was very unlike Mrs Hudson to drop anything, too much mess! He focused on the noise coming from below, trying to figure out what was happening.

He could hear her voice, muffled through the floorboard but unmistakably hers. She sounded as if she was crying, her voice shaking more than usual and long pauses where she stopped to take breath, more frequently than usual. Not a deduction to the standard of Sherlock Holmes, but enough for John Watson to know that something out of the ordinary was happening in the flat below him.

Before, John's natural reaction would have been to go and check on Mrs Hudson, to see if she was okay, to let the army doctor side of him take over. But now, consumed by grief and confusion, he let her be. She was tough, Mrs Hudson, although she may not look it. She's been able to take care of herself before, and John was certain that she could cope now.

A deep voice could be heard over Mrs Hudson's. John couldn't make it out clearly enough to know who the person was, a feat that was too often achieved by Sherlock, only that he was a man. The tears spilled over Johns face again as the pain clawed at his insides at the memories.

The conversation between the muffled voices continued for a few minutes longer, during which John could hear Mrs Hudson clearing up the mess that the smashed cup probably made. The deeper voice said something and there was a pause. John waited, not moving, waiting absolutely silently. It could have been seconds, or minutes, or hours, but eventually, Mrs Hudson replied monosyllabically. John could hear the man raise his voice slightly. Obviously this had not been the reply he had expected. Mrs Hudson was quick to retort. John wished he could hear more than just the muffled sounds, he longed to hear the words, to find out who the voice belonged to.

He didn't have to wait long. Footsteps could be heard coming up the stairs to 221b. Mrs Hudson was shouting up the stairs behind the stranger, who was closing in on the door. John didn't dare move. He listened to Mrs Hudson.

"Now just a minute! You can't just storm up there! He's not ready for this, it'll break him!"

John's pulse began to race. What wasn't he ready for? His whole body tensed as he heard a hand come into contact with the doorknob. He rose from his chair, ready, waiting for his mysterious visitor.

The door opened. John stood there as a familiar figure strode into the flat.

"Sherlock?"


	2. The Unexpected Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the first chapter! I was only planning to do 2 when I first started writing, but I'm already on 5 with more to come and the chapters seem to be getting longer!

The first thing John noticed, was that he was no longer in the living room. Or maybe he was never there. He was in his bedroom, lying in bed, sun streaming through the crack in the curtain. Maybe he was simply dreaming that he heard arguing downstairs. He dreamed that Sherlock returned. Yes, that was it. He sat up in his bed and turned, so his legs dangled over the edge before coming to rest on the polished wooden floor. He rested his elbows on his knees and brought his hands up to his face, covering his eyes. He rocked backwards and forwards gently.

"He wasn't here John. He's dead. You watched him die. He wasn't here. You need to get a grip, John. He's dead and he's not coming back, and you wishing that he's still alive isn't going to change that."

This was not the first time John had had this conversation with himself. His dreams were so vivid, they always were. It was usually a relief to wake up from a dream to discover it wasn't real, especially if they involved the war. Buy more recently he had been dreaming of Sherlock, of the fall, of the hope that he might return. But John knew that wasn't going to happen, he was a sensible man with a desperate wish.

He climbed out of bed and reached for his clothes. He dressed slowly, the disappointed feeling in his stomach was still festering. He knew it was silly to be disappointed, but it wasn't something he could control. It wasn't the only thing he couldn't control lately.

After he was dressed in the usual jeans and jumper combination, he began towards the door. Something made him stop dead in his tracks. I shuffling noise was coming from inside the flat. Mrs Hudson never came in until 11am to bring John food. John glanced at his watch. 9am. So who on earth was down in the flat? Could it be…?

No. Surely not. It was just a dream, wasn't it?

He ran down the stairs two at a time before skidding into the kitchen. Sitting there, resuming his place at the microscope, was the tall, slim frame of Sherlock. His hair, still black and curly, but longer, bounced as he moved his head to write note in a fresh pad of paper before returning back to his experiment. His hands worked so skilfully, even at such a simple task. He was here. The room already smelled like burning chemicals, mixed with fresh bread which was laid out on the side (presumably by Mrs Hudson). He was wearing his purple shirt which stretched tightly across his chest. His coat and scarf were hanging up behind the door, in their rightful place He was really here, unless, John thought, he was still dreaming. He took his finger and pinched himself hard or his left forearm.

"John," the sound of his deep, baritone voice reverberated around the whole room. "When you have stopped inflicting minor and unnecessary injuries on yourself will you pass my your phone? I need to send a text to Lestrade." Sherlock reached out his hand, his palm flat, expectant. When the phone did not come, he turned, his curls bouncing around again. John was staring at him, open-mouthed and wide eyed.

"John, judging by your overreaction yesterday, I suggest you take a seat before we continue." Sherlock spoke softly, with a hint of caution. John snapped himself out of his stupor.

"My…" His voice caught in his throat. "My overreaction?"

"Yes, you passed out just as I walked in."

"Did I?" John's voice has risen a few octaves. "And that counts as an overreaction to you?"

"Yes," said the world's only consulting detective as he returned to his microscope. "It was extremely inconvenient, John"

John fell, rather gladly, into his armchair, continuing to stare at Sherlock.   
He could feel his pulse quicken and his breathing became heavier and faster. Inconvenient? Inconvenient! How dare Sherlock do this to him!

"Sherlock, you can't do this."

Sherlock looked quizzically at his, now rather pale, flatmate. "Do what? I'm only investigating the effects of-"

"I watched you die, Sherlock!" John nearly roared at the top of his voice. "I watched you fall and die, knowing that there was nothing I could do to save you. I buried you. Sherlock, I buried my friends in the war and I had to do it again, only this time..." His voice cut off.

"Only this time what?" Sherlock remain perfectly calm on the exterior, however, alarm bells were ringing in his head.

"It killed me too. It killed me to do that, Sherlock. It killed me to live without you, to not ever see you again. I nearly died Sherlock, just to end the pain! I wanted to see you again so much I actually swallowed the goddam pills!"

Sherlock's face drained of the little colour that was there. He was never told. This information, it was new. Mycroft promised that it wouldn't happen. He stood up and made a move towards John, but John brought up his hands to tell him to stay put.

"And I kept wishing, that one day," John continued, "one day, you might actually come back. But you never did. And it drove me crazy. I've been going mad locked away up here, with all the memories, all the pain, but still I hoped. You've caused so much damage Sherlock and you have the nerve to call my reaction to seeing my best friend is actually alive 'inconvenient'?"

John was now stood up, shaking. His whole body was tense and his face was flushed with colour. He was ready to explode, to scream every insult he new at the walking dead-man that stood before him. He wanted to throw every item he could get his hands on at that face, with his stupid cheekbones and permanently smug smirk. He wanted to beat the man within an inch of his life to show him how much pain he had felt over the past two months. He didn't care what that Adler woman said, the teeth and nose were the first ones that would get hit.

But John didn't do any of these things. His reaction took Sherlock, and himself, completely by surprise. He ran to the younger man and threw his arms around him. Tears began to spill from his eyes and fell onto Sherlock's shirt.

"I thought I'd lost you Sherlock." He didn't care that the sobbing was near hysterical. He didn't care that he was gripping Sherlock's shirt so tightly that he could easily rip the smooth fabric. He kept sobbing, finally letting out all the pain, all the hurt he had felt in the past two months.

Sherlock had no idea what to do. He had never been any good at these kinds of situations, but this was John. John, who had suffered so much, and Sherlock had not heard a word about it. He awkwardly put his arms around John and gently patted his back. He didn't say a word, extremely out of character for Sherlock. As John's sobbing began to subside, Sherlock made a move to put him back in the armchair, and released himself for John's grasp. He lowered his still weeping friend into the chair, and resumed his usual position in the chair opposite him.

He waited until John had completely stopped. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jumper, took a few deep breaths, eyes closed, obviously trying to regain some sense of control. It took a few minutes, during which, both men sat in total silence, apart from the occasional sniff on John's behalf. At last, the man straightened up in his chair and opened his eyes, looking at Sherlock full in the face.

"What happened Sherlock? Tell me exactly what happened that day on the roof. From the beginning, the whole story." John never blinked, and neither did Sherlock. They just stared at each other, taking in every detail. Sherlock noticed that John was thinner, at least 10lbs, unhealthy. The bags under his eyes were noticeably darker, little sleep, probably due to the return of nightmares judging by the state he was in when he walked into the kitchen this morning. War? Could be, more likely it was about Sherlock, considering what he'd just been told. John's hands were shaking, obvious heightened anxiety.

After this brief deduction, Sherlock returned to the matter at hand. He let out a loud sigh and prepared himself for what he was about to do.

"Okay, John. I'll tell you, if you promise not to interrupt me. I need to tell you exactly why it happened, and that's only going to happen if you simply listen."

John nodded.

"Moriarty…" Sherlock began.


	3. Discussions

Sherlock couldn’t remember a time when he had spoken so long. He could feel his voice on its last legs as he concluded his story. He had never moved his eyes from John the entire time, apart from when he told John why he fell. He didn’t want to see the reaction on his face. John’s face looked quizzical, awed, shocked, sad and confused in one expression. Sherlock cleared his throat.

“You have questions,” Sherlock couldn’t help smirking at this. It had been one of the first comments he made to John, sat in the back of a London taxi on their way to their first crime scene. “Fire away.” He sat back, relaxing for the first time in months and closed his eyes. He placed his fingers together and brought them up to his chin, where they rested patiently, waiting for John to begin talking.

Many thoughts were racing through Johns mind. He had done as Sherlock had asked and not said a word. He listened intently to the younger mans voice, taken in every tiny detail about his story. His heart had jumped when he found out why Sherlock had jumped. To protect him. A rush of guilt had pulsed through John after hearing this, as he remembered their last words to each other, face to face in the lab.

“Alone protects people.”

“Nope, friends protect people.”

And Sherlock went and protected him. Sherlock hadn’t been able to look at him when he explained this. It was a good thing. John had felt sure he was going to explode with happiness, regret, shame, pride and a million other different emotions. He was touched, no more than that. He couldn’t find the right word to describe the feeling, but now was not the time to go looking for it in the dictionary that Sherlock kept on top of the bookshelf.

John allowed a few more moments of silence to pass, before he voiced his first question.

“Rhododendron ponticum?” Asked the doctor, his voice struggling to remain steady.

“Yes,” replied the detective. “It induces a death-like sleep, reducing the heartbeat to almost nothing, hence why you couldn’t feel a pulse. Molly helped me to administer enough and performed a body swap when I reached post-mortem after being pronounced dead by several other doctors. A tedious process I’m told.”

“But you fell…”

“I kept you where you were so you wouldn’t see me hit the ground. Naturally the necessary precautions were taken, and were removed when one of my homeless network knocked you over to distract you.”

“And Moriarty? He’s definitely…”

“Yes, John. I visited the hospital roof as soon as Molly had performed the body swap. He’s gone. My checks were incredibly thorough. Molly helped me move him, of course. Couldn’t have the Yard snooping around up there after he was supposed to be an actor. Too suspicious.”

John nodded. His breathing was still heavy, and the possibility of this still being a dream, a trick his subconscious was playing on him as a new form of torture, was not off the cards just yet. 

“What about the snipers? The assassins?” John remembered the threat of death that had hung over his head, unless Sherlock was seen jumping and visibly dying. They had only been called off by Sherlock’s completely selfless act. Selfless, now there was a word not often associated with the consulting detective.

“I tracked them. All three of them. I stayed with Molly for a few days whilst formulating a plan-” Molly would have been delighted, thought John, “before heading straight out to where I was sure the first one was hidden in Brighton, the one who was assigned to Lestrade. Of course he had bolted, but had left so much evidence as to where he had gone it made me wonder why Moriarty hired him in the first place. He man was a complete idiot.”

“Most people are to you.” John remarked. The two men shared a short laugh, reminding them of the times they had spent laughing together before the fall. Sherlock’s eyes found the ashtray, still on the small table that separated him from John. He allowed himself to stare at it for a few moments, but quickly returned to his explanation when he could feel Johns eyes burning into him, watching his every move.

“I caught him within a day. Tied him up in a nice bow, attached a note and sent him straight back to London and to the Yard. Apparently, Molly had a lot of explaining to do to Lestrade when a man appeared in his office, with a note that could only have been from me saying that this was an assassin assigned to kill him. Molly’s never been good at keeping secrets. She keeps biting her lip when she’s lying so she’s easily caught out. I got a phone call the next day requesting I come straight back here and explain myself. I did. But I had to get back to work.”

“Lestrade knew?” 

“Yes, John, and Molly and Mycroft. But I forbade them to tell you.”

“Why?”

“I’ll get to that in a minute, now can you please not interrupt?”

“Sorry.”

“I had to get back to work. There were two more assassins running around. I moved on to the one assigned to Mrs Hudson. Tricky, very tricky. I can see why Moriarty hired him. He put up a struggle when I found him, which took nearly a week. I was sent on a wild goose chase all around Scotland. Managed to lead him into an abandoned factory, where Lestrade was waiting for him. Didn’t need to get my hands dirty at all, although I hear Lestrade may have ended up a bit worse for wear.”

“I read about that in the papers. It just said he was injured following a case.”

“John.”

“Sorry,” John muttered, remembering the no interruptions rule.

“Then I came to the last one. ‘The final problem’ so to speak. HE was difficult to catch. One of the best men involved with Moriarty apparently, and very heavily protected. You’ve heard me say before, John, that Moriarty was positioned in the centre of a web, pulling strings and spinning new ones. It was only when I was tracking the final assassin that I realised how big this web was. I was sent to four different countries across Europe. I was caught a few times, and acquired some minor injuries…”

“You were hurt? How badly Sherlock?”

“That’s not important, John.” Sherlock broke eye contact with the doctor, choosing to address the skull with this particular statement.

“You know damn well it’s important Sherlock Holmes! You’ve put me through enough already, the very least I deserve from you is the truth. How badly were you hurt?” This outburst caught Sherlock quite by surprise. Only John had ever been ale to achieve this. His looked back at the doctor, whose eyes were fixed on him with such intensity it made Sherlock actually feel uncomfortable, again, something only ever achieved by the man sat across from him.

“But it really isn’t-” Sherlock tried to protest, but John wasn’t having any of it.

“Sherlock, if you don’t understand why I need to know, then you clearly don’t know me as well as you think you do. Please just tell me. I need to know.” 

Sherlock considered this. His first assumption was that John was medically interested in Sherlock’s injuries. But with further thought, he realised it was sentiment. John cared about Sherlock, and wanted to make sure he was okay, despite the fact that Sherlock had just waltzed back into his life, potentially messing John up mentally. Yet Sherlock’s safety and well-being was still the most important thing on John’s mind. A strange sensation swept through Sherlock, the same sensation he felt as he stood atop St Barts.

‘I may not understand sentiment, but I do recognise it. And this must be what it feels like.’ Sherlock thought. He cared for the doctor just as the doctor cared for him. Not in a sexual way, or in any way that would cause them to be a couple. No, they didn’t work like that. But they knew that they would risk their lives to save the other. Hadn’t Sherlock already proved that?

“I sustained a few broken ribs, minor bruising on my face, a broken nose and several broken bones in my feet. The man packed quite a punch.” Sherlock smiled wryly. “But I made sure he was caught. He came off worse than I did. I saw to that.” He was no longer smiling. He remembered the satisfaction of hurting as much of him as possible. To punish him for the threat he had made against John, and he regretted nothing.

“So, what happened after?” John asked tentatively, seeing that Sherlock was deep in thought.

“Mycroft happened.” A hint of bitterness could be heard in his voice.

“Ah.”

“As soon as he heard what I had done and what had happened to me, he booked me on the first flight back to London, had a doctor examine me and then locked me up in one of his country home for the past two weeks. I would have come back sooner, but Mycroft is hard to escape from with all those bloody cameras everywhere! As soon as I was ‘discharged’,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “ I jumped on a train and headed straight for London, got in a cab and headed here. Mrs Hudson had quite the fright when she saw me, as I’m sure you heard.” John recalled the sound of smashing China from the night before.

The story had now been completed. Oddly though, John felt more at ease, rather than tense at hearing the story of Sherlock’s fall and return to Baker Street. He ran his hands through his grey-blonde hair, trying to stop his hands from shaking. He let out a large sigh as he held his head in his hands, just as he had that morning. 

“John,” it sounded good, hearing Sherlock say his name again – made everything more real, “John, please understand that I wanted to come back sooner, but Mycroft wouldn’t-”

“Sherlock, you don’t need to explain. You’re here now, and that’s what matters.” John said this only half-heartedly. Of course it mattered, but John was never one to cause a fuss.

“No, John,” Sherlock continued, “I do need to explain. Mycroft kept me in that house and all he ever told me was how well you were doing. I had absolutely no idea what was actually happening. I had no idea that you tried to…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He just couldn’t. “If I’d have known, if Mycroft had told me what was really going on I would have come back so much sooner, I could have saved you the pain which I’ve obviously caused, and am still causing, judging by the way your holding yourself.” Tears weren’t going to be a problem. Sherlock hadn’t cried since the rooftop, and he wasn’t going to change that. But his voice wavered, ever so slightly, and this was enough for John to understand just how his best friend was feeling. 

“John, I’m sorry.” It didn’t need saying, and both men knew it. But there was something final about this apology. For John, it was enough for him to accept that this wasn’t a dream, that Sherlock actually was sat here in front of him, in 221B Baker Street, where he belonged. And he forgave him, forgave everything this man had ever done because in that moment, he had made himself vulnerable, he had opened up. For Sherlock, it marked the end of a long and difficult period. He wanted nothing more than to settle back into their old routine, but understood that this would take time and patience. He knew that John would have to adapt, again, to having him back around. They sat in silence for a few more moments, just observing each other, Sherlock calculating, John memorising. 

It was John who moved first. He stood up and moved to wards Sherlock, who also got up out of his chair. John pulled his friend into a brief, but tight hug, which Sherlock returned, glad of his friend’s forgiveness. They parted from each other, and stood awkwardly in the living room. They only moved when they heard footsteps coming up the stairs. John glanced up at the clock. 11 o’clock. Mrs Hudson on her way up to check on them both. They grinned at each other before Sherlock resumed his position at the microscope, and John flopped own on the sofa and picked up his laptop. He had a lot to blog about.


	4. Adapting

It wasn’t easy. It really wasn’t. John was prepared to admit that it was the most difficult thing he’d ever had to do. Even Sherlock couldn’t deny that it was hard.

There was a new tension between the two men, uncomfortable, unwanted. It felt like there was a string between them, attaching them to one-another, not pulled tight enough to snap, but tight enough to be digging in on either side. An invisible cloud hung over the two inhabitants of 221B, a constant reminder of the past two months. Whatever this new feeling was, neither liked it. What used to be a comfortable routine now seemed forced and bland. Simple things like making a cup of tea seemed like a chore.

There was nothing to move. All of Sherlock’s belongings had remained in the flat, untouched. John knew that he would have secretly missed the place. He caught the detective running his hands over what seemed to be completely ordinary, even mundane, everyday objects. But John knew that Sherlock wanted to take in every detail about the flat. The brief, yet unexpected separation from 221B must have affected him. John wasn’t stupid. He knew that Sherlock had a heart, it was just too often overshadowed by his mind. 

They had agreed not to take on any cases – private or through the Yard – until they had settled back into normality. Sherlock had never liked being patient. For him it was an unnecessary characteristic, waiting infuriated him. He needed something, anything to distract his mind. Only John was the exception. Sherlock knew that John needed the time, needed him to have patience, to just wait, and help. John was the only exception to a lot of things.

Sherlock had done everything he could to make his return as easy and as painless for John as possible. He bought the shopping, and managed to put it away in the right cupboards (with a little help from Mrs Hudson). He refrained from visiting the hospital to do some personal research, and there hadn’t been any decomposing limbs or organs since his return. Sherlock had even gone out of his way to make sure that there was only the required amount of any kind of pill in the flat. He had given the rest to Mrs Hudson to keep in her flat and were to only be returned on Sherlock’s orders. He remembered how John had done this with his supply when there was an immanent danger night.

John felt restless. He wanted to get out and about, get a case and watch Sherlock work his magic. But he didn’t feel ready. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why, but he was aware of the feeling in the pit of his stomach. He watched Sherlock move about the flat, getting the shopping, removing the pills. This made John feel better, it confirmed that Sherlock cared enough to search the entire flat, every nook and cranny, every crack in the floorboard and every hiding place, to make sure John would never attempt to take his own life again. But still this felling was present. Not growing, not shrinking, just lying dormant, waiting.

After a few days of being cooped up together in the flat, the two of them decided they needed some fresh air. Sherlock had dashed into his room and come out wearing something completely ‘un-Sherlock’. He was wearing a pair of faded denim jeans, ripped at the knees and had obviously been loved once as they looked well worn. A dark, brown jumper covered his torso and he pulled a beige coloured beanie down over his curls. He placed a pair of rounded glasses on his face and turned towards the doctor. If John didn’t know it was Sherlock, he would have mistaken him for a uni student, at least 10 tears younger than his actual age. No-one would recognise him, unless the were about 3 inches from his face and looking incredibly hard.

“We don’t need publicity, not at the moment. The time will come, John, but not quite yet.” Said Sherlock as he moved towards the door. He paused in the frame, his fingers lingering on the sleeve of his favourite coat and blue scarf. They were there only a moment before he moved out the door and down the stairs. John followed, as eager to escape from this new tension.

As he made his way out onto Baker Street, he saw Sherlock jump in and drive away. A beeping sound came from the direction of John’s coat pocket. He reached in and pulled the device out. A message flashed across the scene.

Take the next cab to St James’s Park. Too suspicious if we travel together. – SH

John let out a sigh and hailed the next available taxi. He told the cabbie where to go, and slumped back into the seat staring out the window. An ache began in his chest, and unpleasant thoughts flashed through his mind. 

‘What if he doesn’t turn up? What if he’s left me again? What if his taxi crashed? Or his cabbie was yet another homicidal psychopath? What if, what if, what if?’ 

John’s head was spinning. His mouth was dry and his breathing had become shallow and quick. He needed to see Sherlock. Now. He needed to see with his own two eyes that the world’s only consulting detective was alive. He asked his cabbie of they could go any faster, passing off his anxieties as a frantic dash to a family emergency.

The taxi pulled up and John got out, paid the fee and ran. Ran only a few metres before stopping and turning, looking in earnest for any sign of his best friend. He couldn’t see him, he wasn’t there. He could feel the panic rising in him, feel his heightened anxiety taking hold. It seemed as if I vice was squeezing around his chest, he couldn’t breathe. He opened his mouth to scream Sherlock’s name. But he remembered that they were supposed to be on the down low. He was helpless. He turned again and again on the same spot, searching frantically for any signs of Sherlock. Tears began to spill over and roll down his face as he became more desperate. He gasped in large quantities of air, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. The passers by were watching him with looks of concern, some even looked panicked. John’s mind was going fuzzy, his vision was blurring over.

A strong arm gripped him under his shoulder, another encircled his waist and held him upright. John could smell the gunpowder, tea and mint. It could have only been Sherlock. Sure enough, the tall, dark haired detective was helping the doctor to a nearby bench. He sat John down and knelt on the floor in front of him. He took John’s face between his hands and looked at him straight in the eyes.

“John, breathe! Deep breaths! In and out! In – 1, 2, 3, 4 – out – 1, 2, 3, 4. Look at me John,” the doctors eyelids had begun to droop, “John, keep your eyes on me! Breathe!” They continued the exercise for at least 10 minutes. When John had regained his breath, Sherlock sat down next to him and leaned his head back. This was going to be harder than he thought.

On his way here, Sherlock had been deep in thought. He knew he needed to do something. He hated the way John seemed to be avoiding him, yet at the same time following him. This was an entirely one-sided game of cat and mouse where John played both the cat and mouse, and Sherlock didn’t like it. He wanted things back the way they used to be, but he knew that there was no chance of that happening.

He was now faced with three choices. One – he stays at 221B and prolongs this torture until it sorts itself out. Two – He and John sit down again and have a real conversation about the possible solutions to the problem. This was likely to be an awkward conversation as Sherlock knew that the majority of the blame rested on him. Three – He leave Baker Street, leave John, leave London. He releases John from the stresses of their life together and allows him to move on with his life. Sherlock considered all three options carefully. He had just settled on one as the cab pulled up. He got out and moved into the park. He waited there for John, deciding on how he was going to approach this. It would be painful, messy. But it would be better for John in the long-term. Sherlock closed his eyes and began to imagine how the conversation would take shape.

John, I know how much I’ve hurt you, but please understand that what I’m about to do I do with the best intentions…

It was at this point he had seen John, turning, frantic, panic obvious in his face. His breathing looked shallow, yet too frequent. He stumbled and Sherlock ran. He ran to his best friend’s side.

Sherlock returned to the present and looked over at his flat-mate, who seemed to be calming down, although the tears were still rolling down his face. Panic attack, and a nasty one, probably brought on by the heightened anxiety which had ensnared John, causing irrational panicking whenever he was away from Sherlock. Irrational as it was, thought Sherlock, it was understandable. John had lost Sherlock once before, and he never wanted to lose him again. Obviously the very idea had put him in such a state that he had nearly passed out in the middle of the day, in front of a large number of people. He reached out and took John’s wrist, his long, slender fingers pinpointing the location of John’s pulse. It was fast, but slowing. The soldier’s hands were trembling. John was still repeating the breathing exercises and made no attempt to stop Sherlock. To an onlooker, they could pass as a couple, but John and Sherlock did not care.

Once John had finally calmed down completely, Sherlock had reached the flaw in his plan. He couldn’t leave John again, it would kill him. It was too dangerous. If this is what a 10 minute separation did to him, Sherlock wasn’t going to risk leaving him, even for one night, So that left two options.

“John, we need to talk about this.”

“Mmm…” The doctor mumbled, eyes still half closed.

“Neither of us are happy, John. Something needs to change.”

John’s eyes snapped open. He knew Sherlock was right, of course he was. He could practically hear Sherlock’s brain whirring, figuring, calculating. He watched him with intent. John liked to just watch Sherlock when he was thinking. He often tried to figure out what thoughts must be running through the genius’s head. It was fascinating.

“John,” Sherlock continued, his eyebrows knitted together, “we need to talk about this. We can’t go on like this.” John let out a sigh. He knew that it was inevitable. Hadn’t John’s panic attack proved things had changed? Sherlock may have been the intellectually superior of the two, but John was most definitely not an idiot. Until they cleared the air completely, they could never go back to the way things used to be, no matter how much they tried.

“Okay, we’ll talk.” John agreed. 

Sherlock turned towards John and saw him properly for the first time since his apology. He was slouched over, defeated feeling. The bags under his eyes were darker and more noticeable, little or no sleep, increase in the amount of nightmares, despite his return. Gained 4lbs, eating well, he was clearly having a slightly positive effect. Hands were steady, even after his attack, John found Sherlock’s presence calming and his absence terrifying. John’s shirt had traces of toast around the lapel, left over from breakfast this morning. His fingers had the faintest traces of ink, where it had rubbed off when he had was reading the morning paper, only browsing though, too little ink for him to have been properly reading, trying to keep up with the world after 2 months of nothing. Every now and again he would stretch his fingers out, before they curled back towards the centre of his palm. RSI, caused by the amount of typing John had done the other day.   
John had typed out the whole of Sherlock’s story, but had not published it. Sherlock guessed that John had the same idea as him when it came to publicity. Keep it secret until they were ready, and John was obviously not ready. 

Who knows how long the two friends were sat there, Sherlock deducing, John thinking. They remained sat there in total silence for a little while longer, as Sherlock concluded his observations.

“Come on, we best get you back to the flat, and maybe Mrs Hudson can get you something for shock.” Sherlock began to lift his friend off of the bench.

“I’m pretty sure I have a blanket somewhere that would do,” remarked John. Both men froze and there was a moments silence, before the erupted into hysterical laughter. People walking past shot them strange, wary looks, but the men were so overcome with laughter that neither of them noticed. In that simple statement, some of the tension between then disappeared, the string became slightly looser, and they felt the more comfortable with each other than they had done since Sherlock’s return

“Come on John,” said Sherlock, still chucking with his deep laugh, almost like a cat’s purr, “let’s go home.”

Home. I felt good to say, and even better to hear.


	5. Tea and a Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my favourite chapter to write. I'm quite proud of it so I hope you enjoy it!

The silence was more relaxed on the journey home. One thing for certain was that John’s panic attack had left him exhausted. His breathing was getting heavier and slower as he sat in the back of the taxi with Sherlock. Sherlock could see John struggling to stay awake out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t mention it. A comment from Sherlock was probably the last thing John needed right now. Their surroundings were growing darker as the late afternoon moved into evening.

As the taxi pulled up at 221B, John’s eyes were blinking madly as he attempted to keep them open. Sherlock let out a long sigh, hooked his arms around John’s waist and moved John’s arm so it was slung over his shoulder. He managed to manoeuvre himself and John out of the taxi, paid the cabbie and started to move John up the stairs towards the door. He hadn’t retrieved his key yet, so had to knock on the door with the semi-unconscious John still hanging from his tall frame.

Mrs Hudson answered the door almost immediately. Evidently she had been waiting for the boys to return. She took one look at John and gasped, clearly getting the wrong end of what was a very long stick.

“It’s not what you think, Mrs Hudson. John had a panic attack when we went out, it appears to have had a tiring effect on him.”

Mrs Hudson sighed in relief, nodded her head and proceeded to help Sherlock bring John in through the doors and up the stairs to 221B. By this time, John was fully unconscious. Mrs Hudson said she didn’t think she could make it up to John’s room, so they put him on the sofa. Sherlock retrieved a few blankets from his bedroom and used them to cover John. He arranged the pillows to support his head and let him rest.

Sherlock ran his hands through his long curls. He really needed to get them cut, but that would risk exposing himself too soon. As they agreed, only when John was ready. Sherlock had been ready from the word ‘go’. Mrs Hudson saw the look on Sherlock’s face, and a stab of pity went through her chest. He tries so hard, she thought.

“Sherlock, love? Do you want a cup of tea?” 

After a long pause, Sherlock replied, “tea would be lovely, Mrs Hudson.” His voice sounded strained, the stresses of his new, adapted life were catching up with him. 

Mrs Hudson never missed as trick, especially when it came to Sherlock Holmes. She thought something seemed off when she heard him rushing out of the flat earlier in the afternoon. She moved around the kitchen, going through the motions of making tea. She collected two mugs from the cupboard above the sink – which was full of petri dishes. She’d usually tell Sherlock off, playfully, for making such a mess. But given the way Sherlock was now looking at his sleeping flatmate, she thought it best not to mention it. She had always been fond of the youngest Holmes boy, ever since she first met him. 

He’d moved into this flat shortly after his visit to a rehab centre – Mycroft’s doing, of course. Everything in Sherlock’s life at that point had been Mycroft’s doing. She had seen Sherlock at his very worst, and was reminded of this now as she watched him. He was incredibly skinny, skinnier than he was now, if that was possible. He had a sunken look about him, bought on by the addiction. She had taken him straight to her heart, and treated him like the son she never had. 

In her eyes, he was her boy. She had a pathological need to take care of him. When he bought John around, that first day, she could see what a difference it had made in him. It was like a school-boy bringing home his friend for play time. And ever since then, Sherlock had looked so much happier.

She placed the cups of tea on the kitchen table and sat down. Sherlock walked into the kitchen and sat opposite her. He held his head in his hands closed his eyes. Mrs Hudson couldn’t bear to see him like this. She had to say something.

“Sherlock, what’s going on between you and John?” 

Sherlock was so easily disarmed by Mrs Hudson’s voice. It had such a motherly tone to it, a quality his own mother had never possessed. She smelled faintly of flowers, mixed with the smell of baking and tea. It was a comforting smell to Sherlock, he associated it with being home, being safe and loved. She was his real mother, in many ways. She kept him out of trouble when he first moved in, and no matter how pleading, or angry, or sulky or even rude he had been to her, she had never given him what he wanted. She helped him kick the addiction more than that damn rehab centre ever had, and for that, he owed her his life.

“It’s difficult.”

“Try. Please, Sherlock.”

He removed his head from his hands, and found Mrs Hudson’s eyes. Before he knew it, he was telling her everything.

“I didn’t know it would be this hard – coming back. I always assumed that we would slip back into the routine. I thought I would solve cases, he would blog, and we would all drink tea.” He said, taking a sip of his own. “But I didn’t know, I didn’t anticipate just how much damage my leaving had caused John. I want to make this as easy as possible for him. I’d been thinking about it ever since I came back, and today I’d only just settled on a solution. I thought I needed to leave. A clean break, so John could move on with his life. I restrict that so much but just being present. I wanted to get out of the flat, so we planned a walk. I didn’t want to be recognised, hence this,” he gestured towards the uncomfortable disguise, “absolutely appalling outfit. So we took separate taxis. But John’s anxiety obviously built up more than I knew because even that brief separation caused him to have a panic attack.” His speech had become rushed, garbled. He felt that stirring inside him… sentiment.

“I don’t know what to do.” He choked out the words, suddenly realising that hot tears were spilling down his face. Mrs Hudson reached across the table and grasped one of Sherlock’s hands firmly in her own. That was all it took, that simple gesture. Sherlock was overcome.

“I can’t leave him, not now.” His head turned towards his flatmate, still resting on the sofa. “He needs me Mrs Hudson, but I can’t take care of him. All I do is bring pain and difficulty into his life simply by existing. He would have been much better off if he’d never met me." Sherlock couldn’t stop the tears, no matter how much he tried. He wasn’t sobbing, he considered himself above that. He just let the tears slide silently, almost gracefully down his cheeks.

“Sherlock Holmes don’t you ever let me hear you saying that again!”

His head snapped back to Mrs Hudson, who looked at him with a gleam in her eye. 

“You are the best thing that ever happened to that man Sherlock Holmes and don’t you forget it.”

“I’m… the best?”

Mrs Hudson took both of Sherlock’s hands between hers, Sherlock found the warmth of her hands comforting. She looked at the crying man full in the face. She had never seen him cry before, not even when he was begging for the drugs he relied on. It was clear to Mrs Hudson, that John’s wellbeing meant a great deal to Sherlock, even if it was painful for him. He had proved that the day he jumped from St Barts, and confirmed it again now, sat at the table clutching the hands of the only mother-figure he ever had in his life.

“Sherlock,” she started, her voice soft. “Sherlock, think about it. Without you, John would still be using that bloody cane to walk everywhere with. You made him realise he didn’t need it and eradicated the pain his mind was giving him, tell me that’s not a good thing.”

Sherlock was completely taken aback. He turned his gaze to the cup of tea, resting on the table just to the left of their entangled hands, steam still rising from the hot liquid. He hadn’t thought of it that way. John still would be using his cane, probably, had they never met. But that was one thing. He was just about to voice this when Mrs Hudson continued.

“Sherlock, have you ever actually read John’s blog?” 

“Only the parts when he talks about our cases,” he admitted. It was true. Sherlock was only interested in how John made their cases sound. The better they sounded and the more intelligent John made Sherlock out to be, the more cases they would get, and end Sherlock’s insufferable boredom.

“Well if you’d bothered, you would have seen that before you strided,” for Mrs Hudson felt that ‘walked’ was not the right word for Sherlock, “into his life, he had nothing. He did absolutely nothing with himself. He was just trapped inside his head, all day, everyday, very much like you. And even more like you, he was lonely, although he would have never admitted that to anyone.”

Sherlock had looked up at these words. He’d never noticed it before, but hearing someone say it out loud made Sherlock realise how similar he and John actually were.

“And Sherlock. If you honestly believe that leaving would be the best way forward for both of you, I suggest you take a look at yourself in the mirror, and then the man on the sofa. Just the thought of you leaving has got you both in a complete state.”

Sherlock considered her words. How had he missed what was now so obvious. He couldn’t live without John, and John clearly couldn’t live without him. So the best friends were stuck with each other, for now at least. Sherlock reclaimed his hands from Mrs Hudson’s grasp and wiped the remaining tears from his face. He glanced over to the older woman sat opposite him and flashed her a cheeky smirk.

“Since when did you become so clever and observant?” He teased.

Mrs Hudson smiled fondly at the detective and shook her head at him. “When a certain young man waltzed into my life and taught me some very valuable lessons, and hopefully, I managed to teach him just as many.” She gave Sherlock a quick wink as she drained the rest of her tea and began to tidy up. She placed the two cups, on empty, one full but now stone cold, into the sink. When she turned back, Sherlock was watching John sleep again.

“Sherlock, love, it’s been a long day. Why don’t you pop off to bed and I’ll come and check on you two again in the morning.” She placed her hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze, filling her hands with the thick brown wool of the jumper Sherlock was still wearing.

Without taking his eyes off of his sleeping friend, Sherlock replied, “If it’s all the same to you Mrs Hudson, I’ll get changed, but I won’t be sleeping. I want to be here when John wakes up.” Mrs Hudson gave his shoulder another squeeze, to show she understood. Sherlock rose from his seat and turned to Mrs Hudson. There was only a moments pause, filled only with the sound of John’s heavy, sleepy breathing, before Sherlock stooped down and enveloped Mrs Hudson in his arms. She wrapped hers around his back and hugged him back just as tight. From somewhere just above her right ear, she heard Sherlock whisper.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” She hugged him tighter

“That’s quite alright my love.”

“For everything.” In those two words, Sherlock was able to convey everything he had ever wanted to say to the woman he was holding. And she knew he meant it, all of it. She quickly let of Sherlock and playfully hit him with her hand.

“Oh Sherlock, you daft boy.” It was now Mrs Hudson’s turn to dissolve into tears. Sherlock held her face between his hands and wiped them away gently with his thumb. HE placed a small kiss on her forehead and then released her. She turned away from him and walked out of 221B into the hall.

“Goodnight Mrs Hudson.” She heard Sherlock call behind her.

“Goodnight Sherlock, love.” She half turned towards him and saw his outline stood by the door, watching her leave. She made her way slowly down the stairs when she heard the door finally shut.

Honestly, she thought. John was right. Sherlock may have one of the greatest minds the world had ever seen, but he was truly, spectacularly ignorant when it came to some things. She giggles quietly to herself before retiring to her own flat for the rest of the night.

Upstairs, Sherlock was pacing up and down. He’d got changed as soon as Mrs Hudson had reached the botoom of the stairs. He had hated that disguise, it was too uncomfortable, too… not him. He was now in a plain pair of pyjama bottoms, a white t-shirt and his favourite blue dressing-gown. 

It only took 4 of his long strides to cover the length of the room before he turned on his heels and began in the other direction. He needed to think, and as his favourite thinking spot on the sofa had been taken up, he settled on pacing the room instead. Everything Mrs Hudson had said to him replayed in his head, over and over again for what must have been hours. He still needed an answer to the problem of settling back into the routine, back to how it was before the fall. 

John shifted in his sleep, the blanket fell off him awkwardly, leaving him exposed, even though he was still fully dressed. Sherlock moved over to him and replaced the blanket with caution, trying not to wake John. He looked peaceful as he slept, younger. Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a fond smile as he continued to watch John. He sat back in his armchair as silently as he could. He removed his skull from the fireplace and held it at eye level. He didn’t say anything to the yellowing bone. He simply looked. He remembered all the one-sided conversations he’d shared with the thing. But then he turned back to John. 

His conversations with John were never one-sided. John always had an opinion, an extra detail to input. Although Sherlock had never told John this, he secretly was glad of these comments. A fresh outlook on a case was always useful, and John’s opinion always mattered to him. He replaced the skull from it’s original position, then leant back into the chair, stretching his legs out, keeping his hands folded over his stomach, eyes closed.

One thing’s for certain, Sherlock thought as he listened to the rhythms of John’s breathing and his own heartbeat, he was not leaving 221B Baker Street any time soon.


	6. A Trip to the Hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry this chapter took so long! I have been suffering with the well know ailment that is WRITER'S BLOCK! Anyway, this isn't as good as my last chapter, so forgive me, I blame the WRITER'S BLOCK!

Sherlock had been there when John woke up, just as he’d promised he would. He hadn't slept at all the previous night, he'd just sat in his chair, not moving, thinking. He'd even attempted to make breakfast for both of them. John had been impressed with the food Sherlock had prepared. But this was because John was unaware that whilst he was showering, Sherlock had recruited the help of Mrs Hudson once again.

It was over breakfast that Sherlock bought up the subject of their current situation. He relayed his conversation with Mrs Hudson as John munched on his toast and jam. John noticed how much more alert. His eyes had something of the old sparkle back in them, the sparkle that John only ever saw when Sherlock was working on a case. He found it reassuring, it meant Sherlock knew what he was doing, and John trusted it as a gauge of where the case was going. But now was not the time to be reminiscing. Sherlock was bringing up a serious and valid point. 

"So, seeing as you panic at the mere idea of me departing, and the decision to let you lead your life without me, actually reduced me to tears." John had choked on his food when Sherlock admitted to him that he'd been crying to Mrs Hudson. Sherlock, crying? It was a combination that didn't sit comfortably in John's mind. "We clearly have no option but to stay with each other. Which means, we need to sort this out."

Sherlock left this statement hanging in the air, as if it was on a fishing line, and he was waiting for John to take the bait. He wasn't disappointed.

"What is there to sort? You said it yourself! 'We clearly have no option but to stay with each other.' What more is there to discuss?" John didn't look at Sherlock as he said this. He couldn't meet his eyes, he didn't want to see the spark fade. 

"John, you need to understand. I never meant to cause any of this. I had to!" The tone of his voice was desperate as he tried to make his friend understand.

"I do understand Sherlock." Said John, still not meeting Sherlock's eyes.

But Sherlock didn’t believe him. He didn’t think John knew what he was talking about. Sure, John would admit that the idea of being separated would be hard, but Sherlock knew that the problem was a lot bigger, and more complex than that. John would never know, but Sherlock knew.

John had been sleeping restlessly all night, tossing and turning. Clearly, the nightmares had not gone just yet. Sherlock didn’t want to wake him, as it would have been obvious that he was watching him sleep. Sherlock, therefore, did the only thing he could think to do. He had picked up his violin and begun to play. At first it was very quiet, still trying not to wake John, just to calm him. As the notes Sherlock played grew louder, John seemed to relax more. He stopped moving around, laying quite still. Sherlock saw that the music seemed to calm him, so he continued. He played every piece of music that entered into his head, at different speeds, tones and pitches. His eyes never moved from John as he played, making sure that he was still asleep, and calm. Sherlock kept these thoughts to himself, storing them away in his mind palace with the other details about John to be revisited later.

John didn’t remember any of this. He had, of course, been dreaming of Sherlock, of the fall. But something had changed, just as Sherlock jumped, his dream shifted, so it ended with Sherlock alive, whole. He couldn’t explain why the change occurred anymore than he could explain why he had woken up on the sofa.

Sherlock didn’t know what to do. He’d been experiencing this too much recently and it made him uncomfortable. Sherlock always liked to be in control, but now he wait relying on John to direct him. And John wasn’t doing well enough for him.

"I think you need to speak to someone." Sherlock rose from the table and reached for his coat and scarf. John frowned. Sherlock was meant to be keeping on the down low. Why on earth was he about to walk out of the flat in his signature outfit, possibly revealing the fact that he was still alive to the whole world?

"Sherlock?"

"John, I've been hiding long enough, and I need to get this sorted out." Sherlock pointed to the long curls on his head, but John knew that he was not talking about that. John also knew that there was no point in trying to argue with Sherlock. He always got his way. He let out a sigh of resignation before moving to get his own coat. 

They made their way down the stairs and out of the building in silence, John following behind Sherlock. The younger man threw out his hand to hail a cab. The people on Baker Street gave him curious looks when the saw Sherlock. The consulting detective ignored then and stepped into the cab that had just pulled up to the pavement. The taxi driver did a double-take as Sherlock settled himself in one of the seats. John followed. Sherlcok took his phone out of his pocket and began to tap out a message quickly and quietly.

“St Bart’s Hospital, please.” Sherlock’s deep voice filled the whole cab with this simple command. However, the cabbie seemed to have been struck dumb. Sherlock noticed and sighed. “John, please inform this man of our destination as my presence seems to have rendered him quite incompetent.”

The cabbie shut his mouth, which had by this point been hanging open. He shifted in his seat and began to drive in the direction of the hospital. Sherlock returned to his phone. John watched London go by as he stared out of the window. He thought about how many times they’d walked those streets, him and Sherlock. They’d probably been down every road in London, but not realised. John spent so much time running after Sherlock during a chase that he never had any time to register where they were. It was only when they’d caught up with the guilty party that John ever took notice of where they were, and then wondered how on earth they had got there in the first place.

They didn’t speak to one another until the cab stopped outside of the hospital. John got out and held the door open for Sherlock. But Sherlock didn’t move. Without looking away from his phone, he said, “Third floor, lab 3, Molly’s waiting for you.” And with that, he closed the door again, and the cab drove off, leaving John alone on the side of the street, completely clueless as to why he was there. John didn’t want to turn around. He knew that if he did, he’d see Sherlock fall from the tall, white building. Instead, he locked his eyes on the floor at his feet. This was no better. He could remember the blood, the thick, red liquid spreading over the rough, grey pavement where his body had made impact. 

Except it hadn’t. Because Sherlock hadn’t really died that day. But it didn’t stop the pain John felt as he finally turned to look up at the hospital. He had believed, after all, that he watched his friend jump to his death. He had believed that he would never see Sherlock again, and that had hurt. As he looked to the roof, the place where it had happened, John’s eyes began to burn. He quickly turned away. Both men had spent too much time crying recently, and as Sherlock had pointed out to him on many occasions, crying wasn’t going to solve the problem, or make anything better.

He could feel his breathing becoming shallower, and the squeezing sensation that accompanied his panic attacks hit his chest like a brick wall. He began to feel dizzy. Once again, Sherlock had left him, though this time, he wasn’t anywhere close by to come and save John from his nightmare.

He felt a small pressure or his shoulder, and looked up. Molly Hooper had placed her rather small hand on his broad shoulders. Her eyes met John, only a few inches shorter than him.

“Sherlock said you might find it hard to be here by yourself.” So, that was who he had been texting. “I think you need to come inside.” 

They walked in silence through the corridors, passing figure after figure in the long, white lab coats that is was custom to wear here. The faces didn’t register with John as he moved down another corridor. His breathing eased up in these familiar surroundings, and the sensation in his chest was fading to almost nothing. The lights were too harsh, leaving John feeling exposed, judged, examined. Molly pushed open a door to their right and held it open for John. He stepped through and waited for Molly to join him. She gestured to one of the lab stools, where John sat. She pulled up her own and sat facing him. It was obvious from her position and the look on her face that their topic of conversation was a serious one.

“Sherlock told me you were having a hard time adjusting. I wouldn’t bother lying to me John because Sherlock told me that himself and that man knows everything.”

“Oh.” John had been planning on twisting the truth just to get out of there sooner. He did not like the tension between Molly and himself, especially as neither of them had really spoken to each other before. “No, I haven’t been having the easiest of times getting used to it.”

“Why, John? What makes it different to before Sherlock left?” She didn’t take her eyes from him, but they weren’t harsh and intruding, as Sherlock’s could often be, they were soft, and full of concern, as if she genuinely cared for the man sat before her.

“I guess-” John sighed heavily.

“Take your time.”

“I never thought he’d ever leave. I thought we’d stay in that flat for the rest of our lives, or until I found someone worth leaving for, but I knew that was never likely to happen, not with Sherlock being such a huge part of my life. It was either one or the other, and I chose a life Sherlock.”

“So why was it so hard? Surely it would have been exactly what you wanted?”

“I just- It was really hard for me to accept the fact that he had really died. I completely blamed myself for it as well. And I had finally begun to come to terms with that. It was finally beginning to register to me that Sherlock had left my life for good. And I trained my mind to remember that he was dead, and that I should get used to it. So I did. I adjusted to a painful life without my best friend.”

“I still don’t understand, John.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, Molly.” He smiled a little at the woman sat in front him.

“So explain to me. I’m not stupid, John. If I was, do you think Sherlock would put up with me so much, let alone ask me for help?”

“True.” John even let out a small, breathy laugh. It was true. Sherlock would not have put up with Molly’s constant puppy dog, ‘I love you so much’, routine if he did not believe her of use, meaning she was definitely more intelligent than people gave her credit for. He felt a slight twinge of guilt and pity, but moved the conversation on. Forwards was the best way to go when it came to things like this, and as his father had once told him in a clipped, military voice:  
‘Son, running from your problems is never the answer. You’ve got to face them like a man, and tackle them full-on.’

“I guess I’m scared, Molly. I’m bloody terrified.”

“Of what?”

“I’m scared that sooner or later, Sherlock’s going to want to leave me again. That he’ll pack up and leave without any warning, just as he did before. I don’t want to get close to him if he’s going to put me through that again, because once nearly killed us both.”

Molly listened to John intently. She could understand John’s concerns. It must have been hell for him, to lose Sherlock like that so suddenly. It was now molly’s turn to feel the pang of guilt, as she had played an active part in Sherlock’s fake death. She was partially responsible for the rift in their relationship.

“John, when Sherlock came to me to ask for help, do you know how upset he was?” John shook his head. “Well, he was a complete mess. His voice was unsteady, he was shaking like a leaf. I didn’t se him cry, but I’m sure that if I wasn’t there he would have been. He only wanted to make sure that you were safe. He knew that Jim- sorry, Moriarty would try to threaten you to get to Sherlock, and that ultimately that would end in Sherlock’s death. You were his number one priority. Not Mrs Hudson, not Lestrade, not me, not even himself. You. John, Sherlock always had the intention to return after the fall otherwise he wouldn’t have faked it. He would have really died that day – he was prepared to do that. But he knew that the threat wouldn’t have lifted, even if he did die, so he had to remove it, then come back to you. And after all that, and after realising what affect it’s had on you, do you really think Sherlock would willingly leave you like that again?”

John had a lot to take in. He repeated Molly’s words, over and over again in his mind. And finally, something clicked in his brain. Suddenly, the world made sense again, the sun appeared from behind a cloud, he could sense a shift in the universe from that one moment of understanding. Why had he ever been so stupid as to worry about Sherlock leaving him again? The very idea seemed laughable now. In fact, John Watson did laugh. His face broke into a smile and he laughed as if he’d heard the funniest joke in the world.

Molly had been watching cautiously at this point. Sherlock had said John was fragile at the moment, but she would never have expected this reaction from the army doctor. She didn’t join in with his laughter, but waited timidly until he was finished. She chanced a smile at him, a nervous, tentative, weak smile, but a smile nonetheless. John beamed back at her. A glow seemed to be radiating from him, like a halo of light, rather than the dark rainclouds that had shadowed his face when he had first walked in.

“Thank you, Molly.” He said, standing. Molly rose too, extending her hand out to John to shake.

“Glad I could be of assistance,” she said quietly. Her smile seemed more genuine, having seen and judged the change in mood of the man stood in front of her.

John did not take Molly’s hand. Instead, he swooped towards her and flung his arms round her tiny frame. He picked her up from the floor and swung her around the room, Molly holding on tightly so she wouldn’t fly away into any expensive equipment if he dropped her. John was laughing again, and this time, Molly was too.

“Molly Hooper you are the best person in the world!” John said to her through her hair as he placed her back on the ground. “I will never let Sherlock insult you ever again.” Their arms were still wrapped tightly around each other. 

“It doesn’t matter, he’s Sherlock. It’s what he does. Why would he stop just because you told him?” The two broke apart, trying to cover up even more laughter.

“Because he needs me.” Said John, the smile still etched on his face. He looked fondly at the woman who he’s never had time for, except those Christmas and New Year parties. He’d always meant to talk to her, but in all honesty, they were both so involved with Sherlock that they had little time for anyone else.

John smiled down at her, and received a wide, warm smile in return. He turned and walked back out of the lab. Suddenly the light didn’t feel as bright, and harsh. They were just lights, and they couldn’t hurt him. He walked out of the hospital feeling like a completely different person – like the old John Watson, from a time before the fall. He pulled out his phone and hailed a cab. Once he was sat comfortably in the back, he gave the address.

“221B Baker Street, please.” He tapped out a message on his phone and pressed send.

 

About 2 miles across town, Sherlock’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the message.

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. JW

His phone buzzed again.

If inconvenient, come anyway. JW


	7. Sentiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry it's been a while since my last post! Writer's block again! Anyways, the chapters just seem to be getting longer and longer, like this story! I never even thought I'd be able to write 2 chapters, let alone 7! Thank you all so much for sticking with me and I really hope you like reading my story as much as I enjoy writing it xxx

Sherlock didn’t get a taxi home. Of course, they were useful, but they kept you confined within a bubble, and if there was one thing Sherlock could not stand, it was confinement. It reminded him of his awful childhood – if you could call it that! 

Sherlock had spent most of his days locked in the large manor house that belonged to his parents. They never had much time for him, only concerned with their own affairs. But to ensure that Sherlock never got into trouble they would keep the doors shut, and the windows open only slightly, although not enough for a young, deprived boy to make his escape. That’s how everything began for Sherlock Holmes, stuck in the same manor house everyday. He had no-one, nothing, and usually that would drive a person to insanity, but not Sherlock. He spent his days looking at things, observing, guessing, deducing. And young Sherlock found that the longer he spent looking and observing, the more he learnt. He learnt that the ugly vase atop the mantle in his parents’ room had once belonged to his great-grandmother by looking at the painting technique and the paint used. He deduced that she must have left it to his mother shortly before she passed away. And so he went on like this. He deduced that whole house, until the time finally came for him to go to school. At the age of 6, the customary age for a Holmes to begin his education – away from home so their parents didn’t have to involve themselves with the trivial affairs of their children’s education. 

He had arrived at school with a far wider knowledge of the world than the rest of his class. Young Sherlock found, that his abilities to deduce things by simply observing were a great entertainment to the other children, however, having never made any contact with children his own age and the fact that he found each and everyone of his fellow school-mates so stupid that they really weren’t worth his time, he found it incredibly difficult to make friends. And soon, the novelty of Sherlock’s incredible abilities wore off, and Sherlock’s life was filled with insults, cruel jokes at his expense and snide comments. He learnt to bear it, never showing just how much it had truly hurt. Eventually, he stopped displaying most emotions, becoming a shell of the boy that he had once been. That was when he was introduced to the doctors.

The doctors, with their stupid, unnecessary questions and their flashing lights and tests. People always assumed that Sherlock had diagnosed himself as a high-functioning sociopath. This assumption was entirely incorrect. At the age of 7, Sherlock was branded with the title, and grew up with it as if it were plastered across his forehead. Mycroft seemed to be the only one actually interested in Sherlock’s welfare, but after years of nothing, Sherlock rejected his brother’s concern, felling it was confining. Much like a straight-jacket, or the back of a taxi. 

But now was not the time to think about his complex relationship with Mycroft. Sherlock had somewhere to be.

His long was caught in the breeze. As it blew around him, he kept his chin tucked into his scarf, it was quite cold on this particular day. At least his hair wasn’t getting in the way. He removed one of his hands from the pocket of his coat and swept it through his – now shorter – curls. It felt god to have them back to their normal length. His lips curved into the smallest smile as he replaced his hand in his pocket. 

People were beginning to stare now. His face was no longer covered by his hair, and his cheekbones were exposed for all to see. This and the fact that he was wearing his signature coat and scarf, made him recognisable to anyone who’d bothered to pick up a newspaper, or tune into the news over the past 6 months. The passers-by looked as if they had seen a ghost, which in their minds, was probably true. He would speak to Lestrade or Mycroft about organising a press conference about his return. It was better to come clean, than let people come to their conclusions.

Still, as he walked through the streets of London, he couldn’t help but notice the volume of people staring. One girl, early 20s – 22 judging by the way she dressed, the people she was with, the bleach-blonde pixie cut hair and the make-up plastering her face –seemed to have more courage than most. She approached the tall, dark-haired man and asked him, “Are you that detective that jumped? The fake? Aren’t you meant to be dead?” 

Sherlock looked at her with curiosity. He considered his answer very carefully before speaking to her in his baritone purr. “Yes I am Sherlock Holmes, also known as ‘that detective that jumped’. Although I am no fake and as you can see, clearly not dead. Now if you will excuse me I have somewhere very important to be which is not here with you enjoying your stimulating,” Sherlock put extra emphasis on this, the tone of sarcasm so clear in his voice that it was completely impossible to miss, “conversation.” He pushed past her. He was always one for manners, the result of being bought up in a rich, important family. However, Sherlock was not bothered with treating anyone who was prolonging his journey to 221B with the proper respects that he had been taught. He could almost hear his mother’s disapproving tutting.

Sherlock walked quicker now, annoyed at the distractions that the people around him were presenting. He pulled his collar up, closer to his face, to stop the constant staring. 

At last, after what felt like an eternity of walking, he reached the black door with gold lettering reading ‘221B’. He had finally taken his key back from John had dutifully left it on his desk, so he managed to let himself in this time, without having to disturb Mrs Hudson. After all she had done for John and himself, Sherlock felt that she needed a well-deserved break from the both of them. Only for a little while, until things were settled and they were able to move on with their loves as normal. That would probably result in Mrs Hudson, once again, tidying up after the detective and the doctor, muttering under her breath, “not your housekeeper,” as she did so. But until then, Sherlock made sure that they left her alone.

He stopped in the corridor. His eyes moved up the stairs. In their flat, above his head, stood Sherlock’s best friend, who now finally understood everything. He allowed a smile to spread across his face and he strode up the stairs two at a time. He reached the top and paused. His smile had not gone from his face, but he forcibly removed it, resuming his cool, blank expression as he entered the flat.

John was not in the living room. Sherlock turned to his left and found him sat at the kitchen table, exactly as he had been that morning. He had a cup of tea in his hand, and was taking a sip from it as Sherlock entered the room. There was a second cup of tea positioned exactly opposite John. Sherlock removed his coat and scarf, hanging them up behind the door, took his place at the table and picked up his tea. Both men just sat there, drinking, not even looking at each other. As usual, John was the first to speak.

“You were right.” He didn’t look up from his tea.

“I often am.” Neither did the detective.

“Sherlock, I’m serious. You were right, I didn’t understand. All I knew was how much it had hurt me, I never even stopped to think about how much it would have hurt you too. Molly told me, about the shaking, and how your voice trembled when you spoke. Molly said you were a complete state.”

“Hmm.”

“She told me something, Sherlock. Something I’ll never forget, no matter how long I live.”

“And what was that?” Sherlock’s voice was laced in genuine interest. Miss Hooper could have said a number of things to John that would have been of interest, but Sherlock needed to know this one thing. One statement that had changed John’s mind completely about their situation. 

“She said, I was your number one priority. Not Mrs Hudson, not Lestrade, not me, not even yourself. Me.” Sherlock had a feeling that John had just quoted Molly, word for word. John’s mind was brilliant. Not as brilliant as his own, Sherlock thought, but good enough. 

“She’s a smart girl, that Molly.” Sherlock replied. He had grown fond of her during his days spent hiding at her place. It was homely enough, but it wasn’t Baker Street. God, he had missed the flat whilst he had been away. Molly had been more than welcoming, obviously as she was still head-over-heels in love with him – he’d need to introduce her to someone, anyone to take the distracting and irritating attention off of himself. 

When I say I need to find her someone, Sherlock thought, of course I mean John, he’s always been much better at these things, and would probably pull it off with more finesse than if I ever even attempted…

“You don’t give her enough credit, not even nearly enough,” commented the doctor, bringing Sherlock back to the present.

Sherlock paused. “I know,” he finally replied, “I know.” He did know, she’d proven very useful when he wanted to when he needed to…

John and Sherlock finally looked up at each other. Sherlock’s face was still set in the cool mask he wore which he used to cover his true emotions. Only 3 people had ever seen him when he lowered this mask. Molly, Mrs Hudson and John.

John’s face was softer, the hint of a smile playing around his lips. His talk with Molly had confirmed what he must have known all along. Sherlock was back, and he was never leaving again. But there was a difference between hearing the words come from the mouth of Molly Hooper, than hearing the words come form Sherlock himself.

“I was scared Sherlock. You left without any warning, then out of the blue you turned up on the door-step without even giving me a clue that you were still alive.”

“Your point is?” Sherlock had adopted the impatient tone that was only ever used with John if he was stating the obvious.

“I was scared that you would want to leave again, just get up one day and leave-”

“Why on Earth would I do that?” 

“Sherlock, please stop interrupting and let me finish my bloody sentences!” John flashed a fond, teasing smile at the man sat opposite him.

“Sorry,” Sherlock chuckled quietly, allowing a smile to creep across his face. 

“I didn’t want to go through it again. I didn’t want to ever be separated from you, because we’re a team, and there is no such thing as a one-man team. Life without you, is impossible.”

“And probably extremely dull.” 

“Sherlock!” Both men were laughing now, which was a welcome change from having the two of them crying, John thought.

“But Molly told me-“

“She seems to have told you a great number of things.”

John gave up with trying to get Sherlock to stop interrupting. The consulting detective pretty much did whatever he wanted in any situation, so why should John try to change things now? He looked back down at his tea and laughed quietly to himself, shaking his head slightly. Sherlock watched all of John’s movements. He was very fond of that smile, the way he would tuck his chin to his body and let out a small laugh. It was one of the many things about John that he was fond of, and it made Sherlock smile to know that he was the one responsible. 

“I give up.” John was still smiling as he raised his eyes to the ceiling now, talking almost silently to himself.

“No you don’t,” replied Sherlock, with an almost child-like smile plastered on his face. The two men laughed together, not looking at each other, but down towards their now empty cups. Their whole situation seemed impossibly good, a man back from the dead, to bring his friend back from the dead. But as they sat there, both men reflected, and realised that neither of them would change this feeling for anything. 

‘Sentiment.’ Sherlock had been thinking about this word a lot lately, and whenever he did, John was present, either physically or just in Sherlock’s mind. But Sherlock was yet to make the connection. He needed to know why. The feeling that accompanied being unsure was painful to Sherlock. He disliked not knowing things, especially things about himself.

A comfortable silence ensued as John carefully thought out what he was about to say. The words were just forming on his lips, when Sherlock took the words straight out of his mouth.

“We need each other.”

“Yes.” John breathed.

“You understand now, I presume, why I did it?”

“Yes.”

“And your fear of me leaving?” 

John looked Sherlock straight in the eyes. “Absolutely eradicated. After what happened to the both of us, I don’t think you’d be as stupid as to leave again.”

Sherlock smiled at John’s choice of vocabulary. Sometimes he forgot just how intelligent the doctor was. “Honestly, John. When could you ever brand me as ‘stupid’?”

“Oh, shut up!” They found themselves laughing again. Sherlock looked towards the window. It was completely dark outside now, and evening had fallen as the two men continued their easy conversation. If you asked them, neither of them could tell you what they talked about, only that they continued to talk into the early hours of the morning, pausing only to refill their cups with fresh tea.

It was only when John looked at his watch did they move away from the kitchen table. They were finally returning to their normal ways, where John would try and encourage Sherlock to sleep, Sherlock would refuse, and play his violin until deep into the night. Sherlock would have done this anyway, but tonight, he had special reason. He didn’t want John to be plagued with nightmares yet again. It was uncomfortable to witness, and Sherlock could imagine what it must be like for John, being trapped inside his own head which was using his memories and fears to slowly torture him during the few hours between falling asleep and waking. John didn’t deserve anymore pain, and Sherlock knew that. He was prepared to go without sleep for the rest of his life to make sure John was okay. He felt the stirring inside of him again… the sentiment. 

Sherlock thought whilst he played his violin, as he often did. He remembered his school days, the teasing, the laughter. John was the best and only friend Sherlock had ever had, and this made Sherlock realise why he felt like this around him. John was everything Sherlock had. Of course he had material possessions, clothes, money, a flat. But Sherlock didn’t have any emotional – Sherlock felt himself shudder slightly at this realisation –attachment to these things. The only thing he cared about was John. His amazing, brilliant John, who could reduce the high-functioning sociopath to a complete mess of tears and sobbing. Sherlock hated and loved the swooping sensation that flew through him when he saw John smiling, or laughing, or just being happy. Sentiment – a chemical defect found in the losing side, and Sherlock Holmes was losing.

In the private confines of his own bedroom, John Watson was also reflecting on his relationship with the man downstairs. He’d always known that he was Sherlock’s only friend. It was understandable that he would protect him, as John had once offered to do, in a dark swimming pool, in the dead of night, a bomb set to explode attached to his chest. He hadn’t even had time to think when he ran to Moriarty and held him there, telling Sherlock, to run, to save himself. But then, the snipers had turned on Sherlock. 

John had always viewed that moment as the moment their relationship defined itself. It had been obvious from the start that the two men would mean a great deal to each other, but neither of them could ever gauge just how much. 

He listened to Sherlock pay, the long, high-pitched notes reverberated around the entirety of the flat. John marvelled at how Sherlock move effortlessly from one piece of music to another without a pause in-between. It took the breath out of his lungs to hear so many beautiful notes all stringed together like that. Sherlock truly was a genius.

He got changed and tucked himself into bed. He pulled the covers around himself, cocooning his body in a thick layer of warmth and comfort. His eyes closed and he continued to listen to the music. He drifted quite peacefully off to sleep, and was undisturbed by the usual nightmares, for Sherlock continued to play until he saw the first glimpse of the rising sun from the window.

He finally placed his violin down and listened. He couldn’t hear anything from the room above, for John was in a deep, dreamless sleep thanks to Sherlock’s unbelievable music talents – John’s words, not Sherlock’s. He checked his watch, 6am. 

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialled the number he knew so well. It dialled briefly before the person at the other end picked up, as Sherlock knew he would. He always started work a 5.30am, so by 6am, Sherlock should be able to speak to him whilst having his full attention.

“Sherlock? What the bloody hell do you want now?”

An involuntary smirk creeped across Sherlock’s face.

“Lestrade, I think it’s time we told the world about my little miracle.”


	8. Back to Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you for continuing to read, despite the fact that I'm making this up as I go and still have absolutely no idea where it's going. Also, I was wondering, after you've read this, if you could tell me whether or not to leave it here? Obviously I'd love to continue writing, but I didn't know if now was a good time to stop, or keep going. So if you could do that, it would be lovely! - Scarlett xx

Sherlock, John and Lestrade walked out of the side door and into the empty, grey corridor. Cameras flashed eagerly behind them, trying desperately to get one last photograph of the detective and the doctor. 

The press conference regarding Sherlock’s return had been a total success. Everything had gone according to plan.

Lestrade had arranged everything, made sure there was a statement released about Sherlock’s return and scheduled a press conference for the next day. They knew it would make the headlines, and this time, Sherlock wanted to make sure the facts were correct, and they were addressing sensible, mildly intelligent people – as intelligent as you could get whilst working in the media, how tedious, thought Sherlock. He did not want a repetition of what had happened with that Kitty Riley woman.

The plan had been simple. Lestrade would talk, explaining the situation, Sherlock would fill in the blanks, and then there would be a time for questions from the journalists. John was unsure of his purpose. He’d asked Lestrade if his presence was actually necessary, but Sherlock profusely refused to continue if John was not with him. It seemed that Sherlock still had something to prove to the army doctor, despite the resolve of their problems a few nights before.

They entered the room from the same door they had just exited, with the cameras flashing, and the reporters all jostling for the best positions to get their scoop. A few cameras were set up towards the back of the room, to film the whole event, presumably for the evening news. Lestrade had entered first, sitting on the left side of the room, then Sherlock, who was seated in the middle, and finally John, sat to the right of the consulting detective and closest to the door, just in case.

Sherlock was dressed in a suit – as always. Black trousers, black jacket and a tight, white shirt underneath. His hair looked perfect, for there was no other word to describe it. The curls seemed to have a life of their own, curling this way and that. But it was just so… Sherlock. 

John was wearing the same as what he wore to Moriarty’s trial, minus the tie. He wanted to look smart, but the tie felt suffocating. It felt like a noose, waiting to choke him, to cut off his air.

Sherlock had an air of importance about him, after all, these people were here to see him, to listen to him, not to John.

He’d told them exactly what happened, explaining that Moriarty was the liar, not Sherlock, and how he knew that Moriarty had planned for Sherlock to die. They all listened in awe as Sherlock told the same story as he had told John back in Baker Street – word for word, if John was listening properly. 

John was really only there to be a face, he zoned out as Sherlock spoke, not wanting to relive the moment again in his mind. He focused his eyes on the folded hands in his lap, just listening to the vague noise coming from Sherlock’s direction. He occasionally saw the flash of a camera, or the blink of a lens as it caught the light, but his eyes never moved. Sometimes he would hear other voices, never clearly, just voices. It was all just noise, roaring in his ears as he kept his eyes purely on his hands, not blinking, never moving. It wasn’t until he felt the long fingers poke his ribs tat he finally looked up. 

Every eye in the room was trained on him, looking expectant. “Sorry, what?” he asked, looking quizzically at his best friend, also staring at him. A young woman sat three rows back stood up and cleared her throat.

“Penny Newman, Daily Mail. John, were you aware that Sherlock’s apparent death was fake?”

The question took him quite by surprise. “No. No I was not.” There was a flurry of paper as everyone wrote down his words. Another person, an older gentleman stood up to his left.

“Marcus Wright, The Telegraph. How did you react to Sherlock’s ‘death’?”

“Now, look here,” began Lestrade, clearly about to tell the man that it was not his business and John’s private affairs were not the reason for this conference. However, John cut him off before he had the chance.

“It’s okay Detective Inspector,” granting him with the full use of his title. John straightened himself up, put his hands – still folded – on the desk in front of him and leaned forwards towards the crowd of people sat in front of him. “I’ve seen a lot of death, Mr Wright. It’s unavoidable as a soldier as I’m sure you’re all aware. I’ve never truly been affected by death. Until I saw Sherlock fall. As to how that made me feel – well, imagine it was your flatmate, your best friend jumping from that building, and you couldn’t do anything about it. It hurts. It eats away at your stomach, your lungs, your heart. Your body feels like it’s simultaneously covered in fire and ice. You want desperately to scream, to cry, and to break everything in reach. And sometimes you do. The air is forced from your lungs, and no matter how hard you try, you can never refill them. And every time you seem to get one step closer to getting over it, your mind will replay it for you, because seeing it just once isn’t enough. It plagues you, during your sleeping and waking hours. It never leaves; you’ll always end up back at square one. I had no one after Sherlock left. No one. So I had to sit in the flat, and let my mind, my own mind, torture me endlessly. And yet I still held on to the foolish hope that I’d see him again one day. There were times when I couldn’t wait-”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted, holding the doctors arms with a look of caution. “You don’t need to tell them this if it makes you uncomfortable. If truth be told, listening to the description John was giving them was making Sherlock himself feel uncomfortable.

“It’s fine, Sherlock. They asked and I’ll tell them the whole truth.” He turned back to the stares of the journalists. “There were times when I couldn’t stand to just sit and wait until the day I saw Sherlock. I took as many pills as I could find and swallowed them.” There was a gasp and another flurry of paper and pens. “If it weren’t for my landlady and my sister, I would be sat here now. When Sherlock came back, at first I thought it must have been a dream, I dreamt about him so vividly and regularly that I didn’t trust what I saw with my own eyes. When I finally realise it was him, I wanted to punch every single part of his face and throw him out of the flat. I wanted to shout every insult I knew at him, I wanted to hurt him as much as he hurt me.”

“So, what did you do?” Asked Wright, still standing.

“Well, I can’t deny I shouted. I was so full of emotions, and it just seemed like the logical thing to do. But In the end, I didn’t do any of that. I cried and I think I nearly broke his ribs when I hugged him. I guess- I guess I was so completely shocked, and yet overwhelmingly happy to see him, alive, breathing, existing, that nothing else that I wanted to say or do mattered.”

More movement of pen on paper, a few photographs were taken. The next person stood up. Clearly, everyone was waiting their turn to ask their burning questions.

“Sarah Cartwright, BBC news. Sherlock, what was it like for you to leave John, knowing what impact it would have on him?”

Sherlock glared at the woman with what John could only describe as a burning desire for her to be the next victim of a clumsy serial killer. The look even sent shivers down John’s spine. The woman shifted uncomfortably where she stood.

“Let’s get one thing straight.” Sherlock purred, his voice so low that if the room had not been so silent he would never have been heard. “Do you really think that I would have willingly left John if I had known how much it would have hurt him? Do you all honestly think that the only thing I care about is myself? Maybe you should re-read your notes. I was prepared to die for this man, and I hunted down the assassins who threatened his life. When I was given news about John I was told he was doing well and moving on with his life. I was lied to, and if I knew what was really happening to John do you not think that I would have returned home much sooner? John’s descriptions of everything are admirably accurate. To see the way I was hurting this man, it was worse than torture. All I ever wanted was to keep him safe, as he keeps me safe, and I failed, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I failed. I felt burned to the core, dirty. Leaving John was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I have no intention to ever do it again. Do you understand?” The words hung in the air. Every syllable of this last statement was individually formed on Sherlock’s lips, each having a life of their own, and their own emphasis. It was clearly having the intended effect.

The woman sat down, clearly embarrassed. But then another stood up.

“Steven Shaw…” and it went on like this for what felt like hours. Everyone asking Sherlock and John a constant stream of questions. The barely had time to take breath before the next one was unloaded on them.

“Of course I wanted to go back to John after the moment I jumped….”

“No, I lost all contact with the world outside of our flat whilst I was alone, not even my sister…”

“Lestrade’s already explained to you how I apprehended the assassins so if you bothered to listen you would already know…”

“Yes, It was difficult to get back to our normal lives…”

“Do I look like I’m planning to do it again anytime soon? What a waste of a question…”

“No, I still have panic attacks when we’re separated. I’m always scared that he’ll leave me again one day, but I know he won’t…”

All three men found it extremely dull, and couldn’t wait to get out as soon as was humanly possible without appearing rude. Lestrade made their excuses and they rose from their chairs and exited to room.

Which brings us back to the empty, grey corridor.

“That went well, John’s speech should have pulled on some heart strings and Sherlock managed not to insult everyone in the room.” He shot a pointed glance at Sherlock, who had managed to reduce a particularly young female report to tears.

“It’s not my fault the girl was incapable of asking relevant questions!” Sherlock argued. Lestrade opened his mouth to retort, but John put his hands up to stop him.

“Just leave it, Greg,” said John, just as Lestrade opened his mouth. “Sherlock was bound to do it anyway, so what’s the point in even trying?”

Lestrade laughed and looked between the two. “I honestly will never understand how you put up with him John, but, after hearing what you said, I understand that you have to.” He slapped John and Sherlock on the shoulders and then ran his hand through his short, silver hair. “Well, I have a case to see to, so I must be off. I hope they don’t give you too much fuss as you leave.” Lestrade smiled at the men, but made no effort to move. 

“What kind of case?” asked the consulting detective. John could see the longing in Sherlock’s eyes. He needed a case, and soon. He was bored, and a case was the only thing that was going to stop Sherlock from shooting something.

“Murder, nasty one. Obviously I’ve got my best men on the-”

“Wrong,” Sherlock cut in. “You’re men are mediocre at best. You need an expert.” Sherlock shot a glance at John, his eyes pleading with him. John gave a sigh, giving in to resignation. He closed his eyes and nodded in the general direction of Lestrade and Sherlock.

“Right then,” said Lestrade, clasping his hands together in a very business-like way. “It’s about time we got you guys involved. I’ve been grasping at straws recently without you. Obviously we can solve it, but it’s just a lot quicker and easier and we need you, more than I like to admit. He ran his hands through his hair again.

“Details?” Asked Sherlock as all three of them began walking towards Lestrade’s office. They walked quickly, falling into an easy rhythm down the corridor; no-one met them on their way.

“Young woman, late 20s was found in a skip close to the Thames. Stabbed repeatedly in the face. Had a heavy impact to the side of her head causing major internal damage to her brain, which has been her confirmed cause of death. It seemed she was stabbed in the face several hours after her death.” Said Lestrade, leading the way, angling himself towards Sherlock as he spoke. They reached the room in which Lestrade’s office was located. 

“Okay, I need all the information we have so far about the red-headed lady found in a skip. Have in on my desk in 10 minutes.” Lestrade gave his instruction to the room of workers. They all turned their heads at the sound of his commanding voice, but their eyes found the tow figures walking into the room behind Lestrade.

The gentle babble of voices that had filled the room died immediately after Sherlock and John entered. There was a smash of china, not dissimilar to the one John heard on the night of Sherlock’s return.

“Oh my God.” The quiet cry came from their right, the sound seemed to catch in the persons throat, and the three men turned to see Sally Donovan with one hand clamped over her mouth, the other still hanging in the air, where her mug should be, except that it was not in pieces at her feet. Her eyes were wide with shock and terror.

“It can’t be. Impossible.” This muttering came from the figure behind her. Anderson stood with his mouth open, eyes wide like Sally’s, his voice barely a whisper. His paperwork slowly slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor.

John turned his head slightly, so he was able to see Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Only John knew Sherlock well enough to recognise the subtle look of amusement on his face. It wasn’t obvious. There wasn’t a smile at his lips, or a huff of air meant to be a laugh. It was more like a shadow on his face, and only someone who’d spent much of his or her time with Sherlock could see it. John resisted the urge to burst into laughter as he suddenly realised that he must be the only person in the world to see it. Clearly Lestrade had not, or he would have probably granted them a few more moment of amusement before speaking.

“Right, no time for explanations! The whole story will be printed tomorrow in every available newspaper, online and probably on the evening news. So, if you could all read or watch that when you have the time it would help immensely and save me the trouble of explaining it all over again,” began the Detective Inspector, his hands at his hips ass the surveyed the room and addressed it’s inhabitants, all of whom had lost the ability to speak. “It would also give you the chance to learn about it without Sherlock inputting an insult or two as you do.” Lestrade shot another pointed look at the taller man. “But right now, we have a murderer running around somewhere and we desperately need to find them. So if we could all get back to what we were doing and getting the information for me, Sherlock, John, come through.” He pressed past the few remaining people standing between them and the door, and Sherlock and John followed obediently.

Lestrade strolled into his office, Sherlock followed, politely holding the door for John as he entered behind them. Sherlock closed the door after John, leaving behind the still silent room, as everyone’s eyes had followed them into Lestrade’s office. There was 2, maybe three beats of silence, where John and Sherlock held each others gaze, before releasing the laughs they had both been restraining. John’s shoulders were shaking as he clapped a hand to Sherlock’s arms for support. Sherlock chuckled in the deep, cat-like purr John had grown accustomed to as he held on to John. 

“Did you see Donovan’s face? Absolutely priceless!” John managed to splutter the words out as he gulped down air. His laughter had taken all of the air from his lungs.

“Indeed. I found Anderson’s ridiculous expression to be highly amusing,” said Sherlock, a smile spreading widely across his face. 

“He looked like a lost goldfish with his mouth open like that! He looked unable to form a coherent thought!” 

“Anderson often looks like that, John.”

Lestrade coughed, interrupting the men and giving both a look, which was clearly meant to say “I give up on you, both of you,” before settling himself in his chair. He gestured to the two chairs opposite. Sherlock and John took their places, and tried to smother their laughter. 

“When you two are quite ready, we’ll get down to business.” He said calmly, with a hint of sarcasm and an underlying tone of amusement.

They waited for a few more moments to settle. A few pieces of paper made there way into the office, but Sherlock and John refrained from laughing at the fresh wave of stunned faces. Eventually, after about 10 minutes, when all the information had been passed to Lestrade, they began to work.

John looked on fondly as Sherlock scanned the paperwork, his eyes moving swiftly across the white pages. He let out a contented sigh – highly inappropriate for the situation they were in. But he let it out nevertheless. Sherlock continued to look intensely at the words in front of him.

Sherlock, my Sherlock.

It was there, in Lestrade’s office, at the start of a new case, as he watched his best friend work, that John Watson felt truly happy for the first time in months.


	9. The Problem

John flopped down in his familiar armchair as they returned to 221B. There was only one way to put it: John was exhausted. He’s forgotten just how taxing their cases could be. He took big gulps of air, trying to wipe the smile off of his face – a girl had died. But just seeing Sherlock go through the motions, to watch him as he deduced, analysed and solved each of the individual puzzles in his brilliant mind, before finally settling on a conclusion. He was always one step ahead of everyone, and it always left John feeling completely awe-struck.

Sherlock had solved the case quickly. It was similar to the case with the two kidnapped children – the case that had lead to Sherlock’s downfall. It was a footprint, which allowed Sherlock to identify the murderer. No one made a comment, not even Anderson, who accompanied them as part of the forensics team. Ex-lover, worked at the docks, not much older than the woman who he’d killed. He was jealous of the new guy in the young woman’s life. He’d gone to her flat, to pick up the remainder of his belongings that he’s left behind. There had been an argument. A neighbour had overheard loud voices coming from her flat, both seemed furious. He’d managed to hear some snatches of the argument, which Sherlock had listened to intently.

“Bloody ridiculous!”

“Why would you care anyway?”

“…. I can’t believe you sink so low…”

“… well I certainly learnt from the best when it comes to…”

“… lying little slut…”

Sherlock was allowed into the woman’s flat (much to the reluctance of the forensics team, although they all seemed to be more wary of the consulting detective). The flat was small, cramped, barely enough room for two people. It reminded John vaguely of Baker Street. It looked lived in, comfortable, with an eclectic arrange of furniture and ornaments strewn haphazardly across the room. But it wasn’t untidy, far from it. The light shone in from the window opposite the wall, illuminating the room and allowing Sherlock to see everything he needed. They had been inside for all of two minutes before the deductions, observations and conclusions began to flow from Sherlock’s mouth. 

“Blow to the head, quite obvious cause of death, with just that it would have been difficult. But the stab wounds to the face? That’s how the killer allows us to identify him. If she was stabbed in the stomach, it could have been absolutely pointless. But by stabbing her in the face, we know he knew her.”

“We know what-?” Lestrade began to interrupt.

“The face Lestrade! Think! Once again you see but you do not observe! It couldn’t be more obvious. If you know the killer, they’re statistically more likely to stab you in the face than any other body part. So, we know he knew her. He knows her, and yet her stabbed her face after she died, which rules out any of her family. Family have a tendency to just let things lie, a friend perhaps? Maybe, but considering the state the murderer left her face in, it’s more likely to be a previous partner, bitterness is a strong motivator, but so is love. Both come into play here. So, a bitter, previous partner, a previous partner who just happened to be in her flat at the time of death. A previous partner who happens to work at the docks, considering the data we recovered from his footprint. The shoe’s well worn down, manual labour, obviously a man, the possibilities of a woman having size 12 feet is highly unlikely. He’s 5ft 11inches judging by the length of his stride and the angle at which he appears to have put his foot down. The traces of mud, small particles and clears signs that it was once mixed with water, clearly worked in a place with silt, so a river, the Thames being the most likely, considering that’s the river closest to where her body was found. So, we’re looking for a man who works at the river, most likely a dock because of the manual labour, who has previous connections with this girl who’s 5ft 11inches. Lestrade is that enough for your men to be going on or do I have to spell it out further to the morons?” He never seemed to stop for breath. Sherlock moved as he spoke, pointing out the details to Lestrade as he deduced with such ease.

“Amazing,” sighed John, who had been stood to the side of the room, eyes never leaving Sherlock.

Both Lestrade’s and Sherlock’s eyes snapped towards him. Lestrade’s eyes were impassive, keen to move on with the case and make an arrest before the day ended and so moved over the crime scene once again, checking and double checking everything Sherlock had just told them, even though there was absolutely no doubt. Sherlock however, didn’t look away. He fixed his gaze on John for a few moments longer, before breaking out into a half-smile. John returned it and Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. 

“Go to the family, ask about the girls previous relationships. Arrest the man who fits the description.”

“Are you sure about this Sherlock?” Asked Lestrade, looking doubtfully at the taller man. 

“Do you remember what happened the last time someone doubted me Lestrade?” Sherlock shot him a furious look. “Or do I need to remind you?” Sherlock was shaking with rage, his hands screwed up into fists at his side. John noticed this and moved forward.

“Sherlock?” John was cautious, the last thing they needed was for Sherlock to lose his temper. He touched the shaking arm of his best friend. Sherlock visibly relaxed at the touch, and closed his eyes. He grasped John’s arm tightly, nearly cutting off his circulation. “Sherlock, breathe. Just like we did before.”

They spent the next few minutes repeating the same exercise as they had done before in the park. It took a shorter amount of time to calm Sherlock than it did John. Everyone shifted where they stood, not taking their eyes from the two men, waiting to see what would happen. Sherlock nodded as John spoke, acknowledging his instructions. 

“Sherlock, we’re not doubting you, no-one here is.” John glared at Lestrade and Anderson as he spoke. Sherlock’s eyes were still tightly closed as he focused on John’s words. John knew exactly what was happening in Sherlock’s head. His mind palace had turned into a rooftop, Sherlock was stood on the edge. “Sherlock, it’s okay. The past is the past. Moriarty is dead and he’s never coming back.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and John let go of his arm.

“So, Lestrade, are you convinced that I’m right, or do you wish a repeat of what happened a few months ago. Please do think carefully, I detest repetition.”

The man responsible was arrested within hours.

“Tea?” Sherlock offered a mug to John, who still occupied his usual armchair. John took the cup, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously.

“You don’t make tea.”

“I also don’t panic in the middle of a case. Clearly I’m breaking all sorts of rules today.”

They grinned at each other and drank the hot tea.

“Christ,” John began, looking at his cup. “I never realised how much tea we actually dr-”

“Thank you.” John looked up. Sherlock had put his now empty cup on the table between them, and was leaning towards John, a look of absolute sincerity on his face. 

“Wha-”

“For not doubting me, and for helping me when I needed it. It was, umm, good.” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his yes now looking everywhere but at John.

“You do more for me that I’ve ever done for you,” John remarked. “You died to save me.”

“No, I faked my death to save you. They’re two very different things, John.” John let out a short laugh. “Honestly John, how on Earth are you a doctor if you can’t distinguish between a fake death and a real one?”

“Well, it was very convincing.” The two men chuckled lightly. John drained the remainder of his tea, checked his watch and reached for the television remote. He could hear Sherlock rolling his eyes. “Sherlock, if you’re so against watching the news, go and play the violin in your room.”

“You make me sound like I’m an annoying, spoiled child.”

John chucked and muttered under his breath as Sherlock picked up the delicate instrument and moved towards his bedroom, “that’s because you act like one.”

“I heard that John.” 

John was still laughing to himself as the BBC news came on. He waited patiently to hear what he’s been waiting for. Sure enough, 15 minutes into the programme, the newsreader began on the story.

“The man branded as the ‘Fake Genius’, Sherlock Holmes, who was seen jumping from the rooftop of St Bartholomew’s Hospital earlier this year, has this morning revealed to the world that he is still alive. The man who calls himself ‘the worlds only consulting detective’ attended a press conference this morning to release details about his fake suicide and the reasoning behind it.”

They continued to play snippets of the press conference. Lestrade’s explanation of how the whole thing had been pulled off and the people involved. Sherlock answering questions. One thing John did not expect to see, was the footage of himself answering the painful questions. And then Sherlock’s very similar answer. He watched their faces closely. It was clear by looking at the screen, just how much the two men cared for each other, and there was no other way of reading into it than what it was. But, John reminded himself, this was the British media and the British media had a certain reputation for blowing things out of proportion. John predicted that the rumours of their relationship would already be gracing the Internet, but he didn’t care. He was still just glad to have his best mate back.

He heard the door behind him opening, and looked around to see Mrs Hudson arrive with handfuls of shopping bags.

“Only me, love.” She deposited her load onto the kitchen table. “I popped in when you boys were out, and you seemed low on supplies so I thought I’d restock the fridge.”

“Mrs Hudson, you are the best landlady anyone could ask for.” John walked over to her and began to help put the shopping away.

They were silent as they moved around the kitchen, opening and shutting cupboards, the fridge and drawers. The only sound was the slow, haunting, yet beautiful music which emanated from Sherlock’s room just down the hall. John smiled as he continued to put away the shopping.

“It’s nice to see you smiling again, John.” Mrs Hudson smiled fondly at him. 

“It’s nice to have a reason to smile,” John confessed to her. He felt completely at ease with her, and that he could tell her anything. She seemed to take care of Sherlock and himself better then they did. A sudden idea struck him.

“Mrs Hudson, would you let Sherlock and I cook you dinner tomorrow evening?”

The music from the bedroom came to a sudden halt.

“Sorry, would you let me cook you dinner tomorrow evening whilst Sherlock stands to the side being completely useless?” The music began again, a sign that Sherlock now approved of his offer. Mrs Hudson finished putting away the bread, before turning to John. 

“No, I don’t want to bother you boys. You’re probably very busy saving the people of London.” She smiled sweetly and sincerely at John. She truly was fond of the man. He was good for her Sherlock. 

“It’s not a bother Mrs Hudson. I want to thank you, really. You’ve been so good to us over that past few months, and… well… you saved my life more than once.” John looked away, a mixture of sheepishness and embarrassment. Mrs Hudson took John’s face in both her hands.

“John, love. I would do it a hundred more times if I get to see you and Sherlock happy. You’re good for each other.” She patted one of his cheeks. She sighed “I’d love to have you cook me dinner tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” said a deep voice from the doorway. Caught up in the moment, John and Mrs Hudson hadn’t heard Sherlock stop playing and enter the kitchen. “We sincerely look forward to having you.” His lips twisted up into a half-smile, which for Sherlock, was like a massive grin. Mrs Hudson pulled both men into a tight hug, one arm thrown around each of them. 

“Well, I best leave you to it! I’m expecting five-star service tomorrow you realise.” She winked at Sherlock and John as she exited the kitchen. They listened to her shuffle down the stairs. “Goodnight you two,” she shouted up the stairs, “sleep well.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” breathed Sherlock, purely for John’s benefit. John was glad to have more reasons to laugh and smile than cry these days.

“I’m going to turn in.” John stifled a yawn, but there was no hiding anything from Sherlock, besides, he was being blatantly obvious.

“You’re tired.”

“Good deduction, Sherlock.”

“Well, you were being a bit obvious.” Sherlock mimed John yawning hugely.

“Shut up you git.” John shoved Sherlock playfully, still ginning at him, before turning to leave. He was halfway up the stairs before Sherlock called to him.

“Goodnight, John.” He didn’t give John a chance to reply before he was playing the violin again. John made his way up the remainder of the stairs and into his room. He didn’t even bother to get changed before he collapsed onto his bed, fully clothed and fell asleep. For the first time since Sherlock’s return, he didn’t dream, his mind completely blank as his body rested. 

Sherlock continued to play for only a few hours longer, making absolutely sure that John was asleep before he put down the instrument he loved so dearly. He cherished every note he’d ever played on it, even the clashing chords played only to annoy Mycroft. It helped to organise his thoughts, and he used it instead of the alternatives. Sherlock had resisted the temptations to lapse back into his own habits when he was away from John. Every time he’d opened a packet of cigarettes, he’d thought about how disappointed John would have been with him, and he’d not touched them since. And Mycroft had kept him away from anything stronger for years. 

Sherlock lowered himself into his armchair and steepled his hands under his chin. His thoughts rushed though his mind. Today’s case, John, dinner with Mrs Hudson, his panic at the case, John helped him, why? Obvious. That’s what they did, helped each other, saved each other. Why? 

Here, Sherlock was stuck. Why did he and John do that? Ever since they first met, they’d constantly saved each other, but why? The first time John saved him, he didn’t owe Sherlock anything. So, why did John do it? 

Sherlock didn’t sleep at all. Whilst John slept peacefully upstairs, Sherlock spent the night thinking, pacing, playing, anything whilst trying to solve the problem. 

The problem of John.


	10. A Quick Detour

John had only just stepped out of the supermarket door, his arms laden with shopping bags, the flimsy, cheap plastic ones that often broke before you’d made it all the way home, before the sleek, black car pulled up in front of him in the cold, drizzly morning, typical of the temperamental British weather. The door closest to him opened and John stooped lower to see who occupied it, already knowing the answer. Anthea sat on the opposite side, tapping away on her blackberry, not even sparing a glance in his direction.

“Good morning, Doctor Watson,” she chirped. “Need a lift? Weather’s appalling.” John wondered just how she knew this. Her perfectly manicured hands where constantly glued to her phone, and her eyes seemed to do the same. 

John looked around him. The weather did seem to be worsening, his clothes already sticking to him from the dampness acquired by the drizzle, and in all honesty, he didn’t think that the carrier bags would make it all the way back, and he’d rather not risk it. He gave a reluctant sigh and ducked into the car. He placed his bags between Anthea and himself. She would not mind. John knew from experience that these trips tended to proceed in complete silence. The car was warm and comfortable, a combination not often provided by the standard London taxi service.

“Just a quick detour first.” Anthea’s eyes never moved. John wondered what on earth, or who on earth, could require so much attention from the woman. It seemed of vital importance however, as her hands were never idle. 

“Detour?” John roused himself from his thoughts and what she had said began to register. He was just about to ask why they needed a detour before he answered his own question. His exasperated sigh filled the silence that had fallen upon the car. He gazed out of the window, watching the tiny water droplets collect into much larger ones, before racing each other down and across the smooth, tinted glass.

“Does Mycroft have an inability to figure out the use of a mobile phone?” He rolled his eyes. “Seriously, why does he have to go through all the bloody dramatics? A quick text would do.” Anthea ignored him, still focussed on the utterly enthralling words that seemed to dominate her screen.

“Hmm?” Her head angled towards him, questioning, but her eyes were still locked on the device in her hands. 

“Never mind,” John chuckled to himself. He was sure he could tell this woman anything, but she wouldn’t hear him – too wrapped up in her gadgetry. 

They continued the car journey until they reached the polished front door of a rather large, white, marble house. John turned to pick up his shopping, but Anthea gestured for him to leave it in the car and proceed into the house – at least that’s what John assumes from the tiny flutter of her hand in the general direction of the shopping and then beyond the door.

John got out and straightened up. The rain had gotten a lot heavier during his brief time in the expensive black car. He walked up to the front door, already soaking. He heard the slam of the door behind him and he turned around and saw that his groceries were no longer in his field of view. He turned back to the house and knocked on the door. The impressive golden lettering against the dark wood of the door reminded him of Baker Street, and increased his desire to get back there as soon as possible. He’d left Sherlock to his own devices, and John had a uncomfortable feeling that it would involve an experiment that had the potential to burn the flat down. 

A tall, well dressed man answered the door. He hurried John through the door, eyeing the water dripping from him wearily. He was directed into the hall, and was left to the side of the room, away from the carpet. John laughed to himself at the obvious discomfort on the face of the man stood in front of him. He was reminded of the way Mycroft had first surveyed him, with caution and subtle distain, as if John was some disgusting creature that a cat would drag in through the door.

“Mr Holmes will be with you shortly.” John nodded in acknowledgement. “He’s currently writing a rather important letter to the Prime Minister.” The man’s face contorted into an expression of utter smugness, as if such important matters were above John. Once again, John nodded his head. He tried to keep a straight face, but as the man walked away, John couldn’t help but let out a short laugh. If the man heard it, he didn’t react.

John shuffled his feet and looked quickly around the room. It was well furnished, with expensive looking paintings on the wall, and Persian rugs on the polished wooden floors. It smelled like exotic, oriental spices and tea. There was not a speck of dust to be found anywhere, and John was sure that it would be the same throughout the entire house. The man who let John in clearly prided himself on tidiness and the presentation of the house. It was nice, but it didn’t have the same feeling as Baker Street. It didn’t feel lived in, loved, looked after. It was a house, but not a home. It was cold, and unwelcoming. Exactly like the man who inhabited it. The man who at that moment in time, opened the door to John’s left.

“Doctor Watson. Please do come in.” The was no welcome in Mycroft’s voice. It was an instruction rather than an invitation. John followed Mycroft through the door into what could only be Mycroft’s private study. He had a desk at the opposite end of the room, but unlike the desk John shared with Sherlock, everything was neat and tidy. All papers were stacked up in organised piles. Pens were in line with each other, and everything was set out at right angles and straight lines. It made John uncomfortable and scruffy. 

“Please have a seat, John.”

Mycroft sat himself behind his desk, as John seated himself in the comfortable (he hated to admit it to himself, but it was – Sherlock’s distaste of all things Mycroft related seemed to be rubbing off on him) chair opposite the desk. Under Mycroft’s scrutinising eye, John felt like he was back in school, about to be reprimanded by his headmaster.

“What do you want Mycroft? What could you possibly want that required all of this instead of just ringing me?”

Mycroft’s face hardened as John waited for a reply.

“It has come to my attention that you and Sherlock have returned to working with the Metropolitan Police Service.”

“Yes, so what?” John challenged.

“But it seems that Sherlock is in a,” Mycroft paused for a moment as he searched for the appropriate word, “delicate situation.” 

Mycroft knew. He knew about the incident at the crime scene.

“Well, so would you if you were ridiculed for years, died to save lives – well, faked death, and then when you came back, people were still doubting and ridiculing. Please don’t try to understand or sympathise Mycroft because I don’t think it’s a talent of yours.” John didn’t mean to speak so harshly, but he had been holding back a lot of irritation and anger towards the Met, especially Donovan, Anderson and even Lestrade. He didn’t like the way Mycroft was talking about Sherlock, and everything just seemed to spill over.

Mycroft eyed him cautiously. 

“John, I’m not going to pretend I understand what Sherlock is going through. But I do know that I have a better understanding of who Sherlock is than you do.”

This caught John off guard. He always assumed that Mycroft and Sherlock were similar in their emotional aspects. But Mycroft had just shown John that he was wrong. Despite all of his prejudges’ and assumptions that Mycroft was – as that Adler had put it – an Iceman, Mycroft did have a softer side, a side in which Mycroft did care for his brother.

“John, I’m not going to dictate to you how to take care of my little brother, we cold be here for days and I’m sure Mrs Hudson wouldn’t appreciate you standing her up for dinner tonight.” So, Mycroft knew that as well. John did not question this, as he had learnt not o question things when it came to the oldest Holmes brother, but just to take it in his stride and let the moment pass. “I’m just telling you to be careful. Keep an eye on Sherlock. It could be dangerous in his position, and we don’t want history to repeat itself.”

John knew exactly what Mycroft was referring to, and he completely agreed.

“Sherlock wouldn’t.”

“We’d like to hope he wouldn’t, but this is Sherlock we’re talking about. No-one truly knows what he would and wouldn’t do.”

“Well, you’re wrong. I know Sherlock would never do it.” The words were out of John’s mouth before he could stop himself. But he did not make any attempt to take it back. Instead, he stood up and walked straight out of the room. Mycroft didn’t try to stop him. As he crossed the hall, he walked purposefully on the carpet, ignoring the indignant noises being made by the stupid slave of Mycroft’s. He made an extra effort to slam the door on his way out.

He was soaked through, angry, tired and desperate to get home as soon as possible. He knew he was right about Sherlock, but at the same time there was a small voice in the back of his head, which sounded suspiciously like Mycroft, telling him that maybe he was wrong, and reminding him about Sherlock’s dark past. 

He stormed down the stairs and opened the car door with such force that he was surprised that he did not rip the door off. He sat down next to his bags of shopping and slammed this door too. Anthea actually looked up from her phone to stare at John for a few seconds. John glared back at her and then barked at the driver to take him back to Baker Street that instant.

There was a tension in the car. John’s irritation increased with every click of Anthea’s phone, and by the time they reached Baker Street, he felt ready to snap. He gathered up the bags and got out of the car. He fumbled of the keys, his arms full of shopping and his fingers slippery as the rain continued. He swore loudly, not caring who heard, although there was no-one around to hear him.

Eventually, he managed to open the door. He stumbled into the warmth, and let it completely envelope him. This is what a house should feel like. It smelled like baking, that was Mrs Hudson. It also smelled like chemicals – Sherlock. Sherlock!

John ran up the stairs, two at a time before he reached 221B. He opened the door and strode into the flat. Sherlock was sat at his microscope, incredibly focused and just… well… Sherlock. He was utterly normal - well, normal for Sherlock. He breathed a sigh of relief, before dumping the shopping back unceremoniously on the kitchen table.

Sherlock looked up at John as he put away the shopping. 

“What did you argue with Mycroft about?” John did not bother to ask how Sherlock knew what had happened. 

“It’s nothing.” It took barely any time for John to pack away the groceries. Mrs Hudson had got the vast majority of what they needed the night before, he just got a few more essentials, plus all the ingredients for the night ahead. He left them out on the side as a reminder to Sherlock that Mrs Hudson was coming over tonight.

“It was about me wasn’t it?” Sherlock’s voice was curious.

“Didn’t take you long to figure out, did it?” John didn’t turn to Sherlock, choosing instead to focus on organising the food products on the side. His tone was slightly harsher than intended, but John guessed he was still highly irritated and frustrated from his encounter with Mycroft.

Sherlock did not press the matter any further. His vast knowledge of emotions and behaviours gave him the advantage of knowing when to back off. He allowed John to keep pretending to be busy as he obviously gathered his thoughts and pulled himself together. Sherlock returned his attentions to the cultures under his microscope, but every few seconds his eyes would flicker back to John, who still had his back to him. 

“Sherlock,” John began, the words catching in this throat, almost as is he was having trouble articulating a complete sentence. If it were any other person, Sherlock would lose his patience and snap, but this was John, and Sherlock made an exception. “Sherlock, you- you wouldn’t-” he sighed, trying to reform the words in his head. “I know it’s been tough for you, it’s been tough for both of us, especially what happened yesterday. I just want you to know that you can always talk to me if you need to.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment. “There is obviously something else troubling you. Please don’t hold it back to spare my feelings.” 

“You wouldn’t do anything stupid would you?”

“John, in all the time that you have known me, when have you ever been able to describe me as ‘stupid’?”

“You know exactly what I mean, Sherlock.” John had gone from caring doctor and flatmate, to commanding soldier within a matter of seconds. This was one of the many things about John that fascinated Sherlock. How easily he could abandon one persona for another, as if he was shedding his skin in favour of a new one. This often happened during a chase, when one or both of their lives were in danger.

Sherlock thought about John’s words. There was only one thing he could have been talking about.

“Who put that ridiculous idea in your head? Was it dear older brother?”

John shifted uncomfortably where he stood, but his gaze was still steady, eyes fixed on Sherlock, demanding an answer.

“John, it’s been years since I’ve touched anything stronger than paracetamol. Do you really think I’d be so ridiculous as to even go near that kind of stuff just because Anderson and Donovan are giving me a bit of a hard time? I’m wounded by your lack of faith in me John.” He let a smile play around the edges of his lips, and saw John relax slightly as he spotted the subtle expression of amusement on Sherlock’s face. But then worry clouded his face again as he recalled his conversation with Mycroft.

“But Mycroft said you were in a ‘delicate situation’ and I know how much it upset you yesterday and I just-” 

“Mycroft believes that it is his duty to interfere with my life. He may come across as concerned, but growing up he was cold, manipulative and opinionated, and he has not changed over all these years. Do not let him fool you into distrusting me John. Your trust is the only thing I value as much as my own intellect.”

John was utterly stunned as Sherlock’s words sank in. He had never realised how much Sherlock placed on John’s role in their lives. John felt rather flattered, and he could feel the blush slowly creeping across his face.

“Sherlock-”

“I mean it John.”

“I- No! I believe you it’s just-”

“Then there’s nothing more to discuss.” Sherlock, once again, resumed his observation of his cultures. He let a few moments of silence pass before looking up at John, who had not moved and was still watching him with a look of utter shock still etched on his face. Sherlock glanced over John’s head at the kitchen clock, and then back at John.

“I should get started on that dinner if I were you. Mrs Hudson detests lateness and delay, and we did promise her a 5 star service after all.”


	11. Interruptions

Mrs Hudson sat chatting away. It was near 10pm, and she, John and Sherlock were sat around the table, each with a mug of tea in their hands. The flat smelled of tomato and garlic, strong but not overpowering, and pleasant to the senses. The fire was lit in the living room and there were several candles on the wooden table in the kitchen. As John had been setting them out, Sherlock had made a passing comment about 'not being your date', which had resulted in John laughing so much that she felt like his sides were surely going to split, as Sherlock looked on, a deep, amused chuckled escaping him. The atmosphere in 221B was relaxed, welcoming and warm, reminiscent of the time spent there before, the three of them around the table. Although, in previous times, Mrs Hudson was the one fussing around the men, at least one of them sporting an injury sustained during a case more often than not. This evening, however, the tables had turned.

John had cooked a delicious tomato pasta dish he remembered from his childhood, sustaining only a minor shock when he opened the fridge to find a jar of, what John assumed to be tongues - disgusting and completely unhygienic - in the fringe. Well, what had he been expecting? It was Sherlock after all. Sherlock, who had returned in full glory and had promised never to leave and if that meant occasional body parts in the fridge again, John really couldn't give a damn. He had resigned to just shaking his head in a defeated fashion, as he reached past the jar to the ingredients he needed.

Even Sherlock had made an effort to spoil his landlady. He spent the morning composing a special piece on the violin for the woman who had been a mother figure to him. It was slow, emotional and yet beautiful and uplifting. It was his thank-you. Mrs Hudson had loved it, and she enveloped John and Sherlock in a tight hug and she wiped a tear from her eye as Sherlock lowered the beautiful instrument in his hands.

"Oh, you boys. It was wonderful. Forget 5 star service, you boys out-did yourselves." 

They sat for the rest of the evening drinking tea and talking. It was as if nothing had changed, as if Moriarty had never existed, as if Sherlock had never faked his own suicide, and as if John had never tried. They allowed themselves to lull into a relaxed state, laughing as Sherlock made ridiculously extravagant deductions to entertain their guest. He was in the middle of a particularly creative one about a young man passing along under the window, before Mycroft stepped through the door.

He walked in with such total confidence that it looked like he could have been the soul owner of the flat, and they (the actual owners and inhabitants) were merely an irritation to him. It was only Sherlock who noticed the lack of spring in Mycrofts step, and the slight sag of his shoulders. Mrs Hudson jumped as she saw the eldest Holmes brother and John put his arm around her shoulder to calm her down. She waved him away, muttering about her own silliness. John was not having any of it.

"Jesus, Mycroft! You didn't think to knock before you just walk into our flat?" Mycroft eyed John lazily. Clearly the army doctor was still on edge after their talk that morning, but he disregarded the tone of annoyance and anger that was dripping from every syllable John spoke.

"Because the door was unlocked and I knew I wasn't interrupting anything of importance," he could see Johns fists clench, but continued to talk. By now, John was seething. "I need a word with my brother, it does not concern yourself, Dr Watson, I would not expect you to understand the urgency."

Sherlock had remained seated, fingers steepled under his chin as Mycroft was speaking, trying to deduce what his brother wanted, and why he was walking, talking, and in general, existing in an entirely different manner than what was the norm. His eyes flicked up to his brother at the mention of himself. Deductions aside, Sherlock had been listening, and he did not like the way that his brother had been treating John.

"What could you possibly want Mycroft that involves coming over to out flat at 10.30pm, interrupting our dinner for Mrs Hudson and offending my flat mate?" Johns head snapped towards Sherlock. So, he had registered the tension in john's body, and was reading the changes which signaled John's anger. But Sherlock could see how much this evening had meant to John. He had spent the vast majority of the day being ‘a slave to the cooker’ – a phrase Sherlock had heard but never quite understood (how can one possibly be a slave to an inanimate object with no conciseness or sense of thought, therefore unable to give commands and orders for one to obey and thus become it’s slave), until today. John had poured his heart and soul into making sure everything was perfect, and Mycroft had just ruined it.

"A matter of importance I assure you."

Sherlock eyed Mycroft carefully. His brother did not usually consult him unless it truly was a matter of importance. He had registered the earlier comments about urgency and importance, however, Mycroft did love his theatrics, as he proved every time he sent the sleek black car to kidnap John. But something was different this time. He looked at Mycroft, really looked, and began to unravel what was before him. He saw the darkened circles under Mycroft’s eyes. So, he hadn’t been sleeping well, not for at least a week, only taking rest when it was demanded of him by his body, a feeling Sherlock knew all too well. He looked thinner, not eating. This surprised Sherlock in the extreme. Eating was Mycroft’s favourite part of the day, and had been since childhood. Mycroft’s whole manner looked disheveled. He was slumped over ever so slightly, and a sense of defeat was just radiating off of him. His suit was crumpled and several hairs were lying out of place, not concentration upon his appearance. His fingernails were slightly yellowed, and the smell of smoke, and the dusting of ash on the toe of Mycrofts right shoe told Sherlock that he had taken up smoking again. Mycroft was not one for hypocrisy, but here he was, desperately trying to get Sherlock off of the ‘death sticks’ – as John had once so lovely called them – whilst lighting them up the moment Sherlock was out of sight. Something was wrong, very wrong.

“How important?” Sherlock questioned.

“One of our most high-ranking political positions has gone missing, we suspect abduction.” Mycroft let out a sigh, truly defeated. Sherlock almost felt a twinge of sympathy for the man in front of him.

“Surely your team could handle that?” John interrupted. Sherlock turned to look at him. He was now stood behind Mrs Hudson, one hand on each of her shoulders, her left arm was reaching up to hold his right hand, a defensive position. “Just get hold of the CCTV footage and see if-”

“Do you really think we haven’t already taken every single course of action Dr Watson? We have searched every street in the city, gone through every tape from the past week and there has been nothing. He has been taken from right under our very noses and there’s not been a single trace we have be able to find to track him. So you honestly think I would have let this pass me? Just given it to my brother for him to play around with so he would get bored? This is the British government John and I’ll be damned if you think I am not taking every precaution and available measure to ensure we find him!” Mycroft raised his voice during his outburst. His face was flushing, but after a minute he composed himself and adopted an aloof expression – the default for Mycroft - as if John was beneath him. Sherlock almost pointed out to him, that John was a much better man than Mycroft, but held his tongue, reminded of something. Sherlock was instantly taken back to his childhood. 

He had heard this tone of voice many, many times. It was often because one of his experiments had gone awry, and Mycroft, being the only family member Sherlock had ever listened to, was always the one to sternly tell him off. Sherlock had admired his eldest brother so much as a child that it bordered on idolization. He would listen to every single word Mycroft articulated, and whatever he said must have been true because it was Mycroft who said it. Mycroft protected him, guided him. Sherlock made him promise when he was about four years old, that he would never leave. Mycroft, still being young at only the age of eleven, promised. 

But Mycroft did leave. He had to go to school, and Sherlock felt a fresh wave of betrayal every time he saw his brother load the car with his suitcases and drive off to a place where Sherlock was not. Sherlock had never really forgiven Mycroft. 

“How high up?” Sherlock questioned.

“Very.”

“Above you?”

Mycroft let out a huff of breath, amused. “Come now Sherlock, let’s not be ridiculous. He is high enough for this to be of national concern. I fhe is not returned soon, things could get rather… complicated.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment. There was nothing Sherlock would enjoy more than to see Mycroft try to deal with these ‘complications’. But he saw the desperation, and decided to overlook their sibling rivalry. Besides, the case did sound extremely interesting.

“I’ll take the case.”

“You what?” John stared at Sherlock, mouth open, eyes bulging, he had surprised John. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“John, don’t sound so surprised. And for goodness sake close your mouth. Not only will you swallow an ungodly amount of flies at this rate, but you’re also starting to look like Anderson as, what you described ‘a lost goldfish’, and I don’t think I could tolerate that.” He said it very quickly, and rather snappishly, but now was not the time to argue with John, Sherlock clearly had a very serious case on his hands.

John muttered under his breath. “I don’t believe this.” The doctor ran his hands through his greying hair, like he was trying to grab onto to something and keep a tight hold – his sanity most likely, if anything was going to go missing when the Holmes brothers were together, it was John’s sanity.

“It doesn’t matter whether you believe it or not John. I am taking the case.” Each word punctuated the air with a sharpness that John couldn’t quite place. He looked at Sherlock. His eyes were set, determined. His jaw was clenched tightly together. Well, no reasoning with him then, John was just going to have to sit back and let Sherlock lead on – as always.

Mrs Hudson cleared her throat timidly. Three pairs of eyes locked on her. “I think I should be off now.”

“No, Mrs Hudson, you don’t have to go.” John looked apologetically at her, before shooting murderous glances at Sherlock and Mycroft. If looks could kill, the Holmes brothers would be sharing a grave. But they couldn’t, and both men remained very much alive.

“John, it’s fine. I can see when I’m not needed.” She stood up and made her way out of the flat, pausing to kiss Sherlock and John on each of their cheeks and hugging them tightly before she left. “It was a wonderful meal John, thank you,” she spoke into his ear as she wraped her arms around the shorter man.

“Anytime Mrs Hudson, anytime.”

She moved next to the consulting detective. “Sherlock, the music was absolutely beautiful. I’ll want to hear it again come Christmas,” she joked as she felt Sherlock’s long arms wrap around her tiny frame.

“Thank you Mrs Hudson.” He whispered in her ear. She waved him away with her hand before exiting the flat. After the listened to her descend the stairs, the three men stood in a stony silence. Mycroft and Sherlock were both watching John, who was clearly weighing up his options.

“Fine,” he sighed, exasperated and irritated. He moved out of the kitchen and into the living room, flopping magnificently and 

“Good. I’m glad you’re on board John, you know I’m lost without my blogger. And who knows, your abilities to sulk might be useful.” John rolled his eyes in annoyance and did not look back at Sherlock.

“Your one to talk. If sulking was an Olympic sport Sherlock, forget gold, you’d win the bloody platinum medal.”

“Impossible John, and you know it.”

“Oh you’d find a way.” 

It was now Mycroft’s turn to clear his throat. Sherlock and John both looked back up at him, with expression that told Mycroft that they had just forgotten there was someone else in the flat with them. “When you have quite finished your little domestic squabble and begin to behave like the grown ups you are, may we get back to the matter in hand?”

Sherlock gestured toward the sofa, where Mycroft took a seat. Sherlock lowered himself into his armchair and turned to face his brother

“What happened Mycroft? Tell me from the beginning, and don’t be boring.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys! Thank for reading this and staying with me! Just a note to say that I've now begun work on another fanfiction with my very good friend Jennie! It's called 'Whatever remains, must be truth...' and I'd love it if you guys could check it out! The username is '2penstopaper'. Thanks guys! xxx


	12. The Missing Politician

There are few times in life when one Holmes brother will ask the other for their help. The incident regarding the missing politician, a Mr Lawson, was one of them. John was still seething over Mycroft interrupting their evening with Mrs Hudson, but he trusted Sherlock and knew that he would not have accepted the case if it were not highly important, or interesting.

The first thing they'd done was to watch back the CCTV footage in Mycroft's office. John thought it was extremely under furnished – minimalist, in fact. There was no life, not character, no sense of a living being occupying it. Quite the opposite to Baker Street. The white walls reminded him of the walls of a hospital ward, or a prison cell. It felt confining. The carpet was beige, and very dull. The lights were harsh and uncomfortable, john was already starting to get a headache. How Mycroft could work in these conditions he'd never understand. An expensive looking portrait of something – john could not determine what it was – was hung up on the back wall, providing the room with the little colour Mycroft seemed to allow. There was a plant in the corner of the room, just behind the large, overbearing desk. It looked well loved. John laughed to himself, how could Mycroft take better care of a plant than his brother?

"Something amusing, Dr Watson?" He was stood behind the desk, at which Sherlock was currently situated, occupying the black, leather office chair that accompanied it.

"Not at all, Mycroft," replied John, airily, "just admiring the office." The comment was returned with the cold look that Mycroft often gave John – disproving could have been one word for it.

Sherlock was already tapping away at the keyboard – deducing the passwords into the most secure computer in Britain – looking for all the world like a young boy who'd just received the very thing he asked for on Christmas. John heard Mycroft sigh heavily and watched him roll his eyes behind Sherlock's back.

"Mycroft, if you didn't want me to get into this computer you should have chosen a less obvious passcode, or at least change it at least once a month. Failing it would be advisable to change your keyboard every so often because I can clearly see the most typed characters and it's not a difficult leap to figure out which order they go in-"

"Yes, thank you Sherlock," Mycroft snapped to stop him form picking yet more holes in his security system.

All three men watched the CCTV footage on the computer screen. Sherlock leaned in and stared intently, documenting every single detail that was presented to him for further analysis, whilst Mycroft and John leaned over one of his shoulders. At any other time, this would have annoyed Sherlock. He did not tolerate having people looking over his shoulder. Of course, he did it to John, but that was different, John didn't mind and he did. But Sherlock's attention was captivated by the small black and white images dancing across the screen. They watched as an obviously well-to-do man walked down the left side of the street with large, expensive looking houses shadowing him from the sunlight. On the opposite side of the road was a small park. They followed him, jumping from one clip to the next until…

"There!" Sherlock pointed at the screen with his still gloved hand. "See? He's there walking down the road in that shot, but in the next one," he clicked the mouse to move on, "see? He's gone." Sherlock tapped in some sort of code - John was amazed at how much he knew about the system, but had learned that Sherlock didn't need telling how brilliant he was 24/7 – and the screen jumped from angle to angle, all focused on the street where the man went missing. "It appears you have a blind spot, Mycroft. John," Sherlock turned swiftly to John, nearly hitting him in the head with his own due to how close they were all leaned over to see the screen.

"Jesus Sherlock, watch it!" Sherlock ignored this and grabbed John's arm, looking at him straight in the eye, as if what he had to say was the most important thing in existence.

"Send a text to Lestrade immediately. Tell him to get a decent and moderately intelligent team up to Vincent Square as soon as possible – not Anderson, he'll just get in the way. We need to close off the road, I need to get a closer look at this blind spot." Sherlock practically jumped out of the chair and began to stride towards the door in his ling, confident steps. He turned back to look at John, who was still recovering from the near miss. "John. The text."

"Yeah, okay, give me a minute." John fumbled in his coat pockets until he finally found his phone and began to type out the instructions for Lestrade.

"We don't have a minute, John. In the time your wasting the abductor could be there right now clearing away any shred of evidence that I could have found. He's clever, John. Very clever. He knew about the blind spot, the one and only hole in the security put in place by my brother. He knew exactly what they were doing. Oh," Sherlock clapped his hands together once and bought them up to his face, in line with his nose and shut his eyes, thinking, "I love clever ones, they're a challenge." His eyes snapped open and he bought his hands away by about an inch or two, still held together. "Finally, something interesting, something worthwhile, it's better than Christmas." Sherlock was now struggling to keep the smile from his face. John looked up from his phone as he pressed send and was reminded of their first case together. He was now fighting back his own smile, bringing back yet more memories of their first case together.

'We can't giggle, it's a crime-scene!' His own words echoed in his head as he followed Sherlock as he exited Mycroft's office in a swirl of black coat and blue scarf.

They took their usual mode of transportation to the scene – a black London taxi – and found Lestrade and his team had already taped off the area, the flashing lights casting dancing images of blue across the surrounding area. Sherlock jumped out of the taxi, leaving john to pay, again. By the time John turned around, Sherlock was already moving around the scene in choreographed steps. It didn't look any different to any other crime-scene. Except…

Standing next to Lestrade was a young woman. John walked over to the both of them, his curiosity peaking. She was small, a few inches shorter than himself, with blonde hair in a loose bun that caught the sun and reflected gold, like a halo around her head. Her eyes were a royal blue, almost sapphire, and they were wide and round, making her face look young, innocent. She couldn't have been any older than 30 – and that was pushing it. She was wearing the blue overalls that identified her as part of the forensics team. Lestrade waved him over and introduced them.

"John, this is Elizabeth Miller."

"Miller?" John looked questioningly at the girl.

"Yes Dr Watson, Miller." Her voice was silvery, the words slipping from her mouth as if they were silk.

"Elizabeth is one of our new members of the forensics team. She's sharp, and considering Sherlock's dictations on who I should and shouldn't bring, I thought she could lead the team today."

"Call me Liz, please Doctor Watson." She smiled up at the army doctor, extending a hand to him, which he took immediately, shaking it. As he did, a few strands of hair fell out of her bun. She tucked them behind her ear with her gloved hands.

"John." He smiled at her. "So you're leading forensics?"

"Yes, although, from the sounds of your blog, you and your partner in crime seem to cope just fine on your own." John felt a flush of colour sweep across his face.

"You read my blog?"

"Everyone at the Yard's read it John! I sent the link to my sister Mary. We love to talk about it when we meet up. We love it. We're a particularly fond of 'A Study In Pink.'"

"Yes, that does seem to be the most popular." John laughed. Liz laughed with him. Lestrade shot them both serious looks, which sobered them up slightly. What was it about a crime-scene that made John laugh more than usual?

John watched her as Liz's eyes took in the scene around them. Before he could continue their conversation, Sherlock's voice could be heard making deductions and observations.

"Oh boy, here we go," he said under his breath, and Liz giggled.

"Here. Here is the exact spot." He exclaimed, pointing to a spot on the pavement and moving the focus to the road, and then back again.

John couldn't see anything of interest where Sherlock was pointing, but he heard a small gasp of understanding from where he knew Liz was standing. "Of course!" she moved forwards to where Sherlock was stood and looked at the patch of ground he was gesturing to. John followed.

"John, look at this." Sherlock kneeled down on the floor, and John followed suit. Leaning in closer, John saw the tiniest, uneven black lines on the edge of the pavement, dragging towards the road. "It's rubber, John. Rubber from-"

"The soles of a shoe worn by a person putting up a struggle against something, presumably the man who were abducting him, digging his heels in to try and stop the attack."

Sherlock's head snapped up. His eyes locked with Liz and they shared a look. Sherlock looked utterly amazed and, quite frankly, struck-dumb, a concept that had never to this day been applicable to Sherlock Holmes. The moment would have lasted longer, had John not cleared his throat to make introductions.

"Sherlock," John began as the three of them straightened up, "this is Elizabeth Miller, she's-"

"27, married," John groaned internally, "part of the forensics team going by your overalls, Lestrade's using you as a replacement Anderson today after I refused to work with him," Sherlock noted.

"Correct on all accounts Mr Holmes. So, you really are as good as John says you are on his blog, I thought you were just exaggerating." She flashed a wicked grin at the army doctor.

Sherlock stood there, eyeing the woman. Sherlock was impressed, but made no obvious sign. John could tell though, by the way he angled himself slightly toward her, and the corners of his mouth twitched up ever so slightly. Sherlock was hardly one for smiles and hugs, especially around new people. He buried his hands in the pockets of his coat, still watching, analyzing.

"Call me Liz," she introduced. "Now, if we don't get a move on soon Mr Holmes, we shall loose the light of the sun, which will not only make everything a pain to see without torches, but it will also be quite cold, and these overalls aren't incredibly good at keeping you warm." She shot a quick glance at John, who had to stifle his laughter again – why were all the good ones married?.

"Well, Liz, it's a pleasant change to have someone on the scene with more than one brain cell except myself, John and on occasions Lestrade" Sherlock nodded his head apologetically towards him, knowing that these insults were probably a bit not good. John waved him away, he'd heard worse before about the team, and he silently thanked whatever Gods were listening that Lestrade had the good sense not to bring Anderson and Donovan this time, and instead bought Liz.

"So," Sherlock continued to the both of them, "we can assume there was a struggle, meaning the people who took him relied on brute force, rather than laying out a trap. They were clumsy though, incredibly. They either drove up to him and grabbed him whilst still moving, or they were waiting for him as he approached before ambushing him."

"We can tell be the length, width and colour of the marks," Liz began, stooping low again to get another look at them, "that Mr Lawson was upright as he struggled, which tells us that he was fully conscious. It's light, his foot barley scraped across the floor in an attempt to stop the ambush. Had he been unconscious, there would have been several heavier marks where they would have had to drag him into the vehicle. The angle at which the mark was made told us they were travelling in this direction," Liz motioned down the street, "at the time of the abduction."

"Not incredibly creative, or clever, but they were merely the muscle required for the operation whilst the mind behind this was sat comfortably behind a desk-"

"Letting his henchmen do all the dirty work for him!" Liz's eyes lit up in realisation and understanding.

"My thoughts exactly. Whoever these men were, they weren't as clever as the one behind it all. I guarantee if we look back at the CCTV footage again we'll find out all we need to know, including the vehicle they used, now that we know the direction they were travelling."

Sherlock swooped away, pulling out his phone and dialing a number, probably Mycroft, leaving John and Lizzie still leaning over the tiny scuff marks on the floor. Lestrade walked over to them, and after John explained what had just happened to him, he clapped Liz on the back.

"Who'd have thought you, of all people would be able to get along with Sherlock Holmes. You're impossibly nice and intelligent and he's just… well, he's Sherlock." Lestrade let out a short laugh of disbelief, before moving to the rest of the team to debrief them of the exchange between John, Sherlock and Liz. He called back over his shoulder, "perhaps I should bring you along to more cases, Miller!"

"Well, you certainly seem to know what you're doing. And it looks like Sherlock can work with you," John remarked. Liz smiled up at him again.

"I never did believe all the things Anderson and Donovan said about him in the office. I believed that what you wrote on your blog was true. Today I was just doing my job, and by taking what you've written about him, applying myself in a way in which we can all work together. I showed Sherlock I was able minded, but not a threat by telling him what I saw and letting him draw his own conclusions." John stared at her in amazement. Not only had she read his blog, but she'd paid attention to the minor details and extracted useful information to make working with her more easy and bearable for Sherlock.

"You are amazing." John breathed.

"Actually," she smiled, a little more shyly this time, "it was my sister who suggested doing it when I told her I might end up on the same case as you two."

John smiled. "I'd like to meet this sister of yours, it seems that I owe her a thank-you at least. Sherlock's very particular, and what you did today was extraordinary." Liz's eye's sparkled.

"That's a brilliant idea!" She almost sang. Before she could exchange any details, Sherlock grabbed John by the sleeve of his coat and propelled him towards another black, London taxi, which he seemed to just conjure out of nowhere.

"Come on, John! If we have any hope of finding Lawson it will be by tracking these idiots that were paid to carry out this stage. If we're lucky, we'll at least have a location by the end of the evening." Sherlock bundled him in the cab, barked out Mycroft's address and they set off. Sherlock stared out of the window for the vast majority of the journey, lost in his mind palace presumably. John didn't want to disturb him to find out. About 10 minute in, John's phone buzzed. He opened the unread text message.

Got your number from Lestrade. Hope you don't mind. I'll pass it on to my sister at the earliest opportunity. She'd love to meet you. Her name's Mary. – Liz x

John smiled at his phone and texted back straight away.

I don't mind at all. I look forward to meeting her. Can you send me her number? – JW

It was less than a minute before he got a relpy.

Mary Morstan [number attached] – Liz x


	13. Returning To Normality

It was finally happening.

Sherlock had a case, and was continuing to solve it just as quickly and efficiently as ever.

John’s first date with Mary went well. Sherlock hadn’t even tried to ruin it. She was much like her sister in the fact that they both possessed a razor sharp intellect which impressed Sherlock far more than he let on. That and also neither of the sisters had been particularly offended or angry about any of the deductions Sherlock made about them. In fact, Mary had laughed with glee and asked him to do it again. Sherlock – the arrogant, spotlight-loving git – had obliged immediately, only stopping when John insisted that he and Mary had to be going because the restaurant he had chosen would not hold the reservation for them if they were late. John and Mary had chatted, laughed and John realized that he was enjoying her company immensely, and allowed himself a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, this could work out.

The second date, if possible, was even better. Even despite the fact that Sherlock decided to tag along. They’d taken a walk through St Jame’s park. Sherlock was deducing random passers-by, which greatly entertained both of them immensely. Things were looking good for the budding romance.

After the case was over, John updated his blog with the new adventure. The comments just poured in – mainly about how nice it was that Sherlock and John had managed to move on with their lives, and how good it was to see them returning to normality.

Yes, John reflected as he sat reading the comments. He had his best friend back, and now he had Mary too, Lestrade was still giving them cases, Mrs Hudson fussed and Mycroft was being his usual aloof self. The reflection of his life at the moment causes a small smile to spread across his face.

Yes, returning to normality was good. Very good indeed.


End file.
